


born losers

by sylwrites



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sleuthing, something a little lighter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-09 23:59:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11115630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylwrites/pseuds/sylwrites
Summary: For years, Jughead's life has been about Jellybean. Now that she's off to college, he can start picking up where he'd left off.Two things might complicate this a bit: being named best man in his childhood friend's wedding, and the bride's maid of honour.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! This'll be another slow burn, but the updates will likely be posted with slightly less frequency than FIL was.
> 
> Please note that I've taken some liberties with Jellybean's age. In the show, she is six-ish years younger than Jughead, but in this universe the gap is about eight years.

_“Lay this unto your breast:_  
_Old friends, like old swords,_  
_Still are trusted best.”_

  * John Webster



 

 

 

At least it's kind of dark inside.

 

That is the one upside that Jughead can find to this whole situation. If he has to be here, at least he can skulk around in the dimly lit back corner, avoiding people. The obvious solution is to leave - well, the _real_ obvious solution was to never have come - but it's Archie, and old friends, like habits, die hard.

 

So when his childhood best friend had called him a couple of weeks before to tell him he was engaged and to ask him to be his best man, Jughead said yes. There were a million reasons not to - he doesn't really like most people, he's never been to a wedding and has no idea what being a best man entails, he’s just in the process of moving into his new dingy apartment near NYU and now isn't a good time, and hey, he and Archie aren't even as close as they used to be - but he's still _Archie,_ still his brother. The answer is a foregone conclusion. Of _course._

 

Unfortunately, Archie Andrews has chosen to marry a rich, spoiled girl from the Upper East Side. If Jughead has a polar opposite, it’s Veronica Lodge. Obvious wealth gap aside, she’s outgoing, fiery, overtly social, and bossy in an unempowered sort of way. Apparently, she's also the kind of girl who rents out an entire upscale bar in Chelsea for an engagement party. And as best man, his presence was deemed mandatory.

 

So here he is, sitting in the corner with a cup of black coffee instead of mingling with a flute of champagne. The first thing he'd done upon arrival was to stake out a place in the darker back of the bar, far from the light streaming in through the lofty glass windows that stretch across the front of the building. The second thing had been to grab a plate full of snacks from one of the many tables laden with catering. Before he could get to the third - sullenly passing judgment - he’d been stolen by Veronica, forced to suffer through a round of introductions to the rest of the bridal party.

 

Jughead already knows the groomsmen; Moose Mason and Reggie Mantle were also from Riverdale, both former football teammates and friends of Archie. Jughead doesn’t mind Moose, who he’s always regarded as a bit of a gentle giant, but he is really not a fan of Reggie. He’s has spent years trying to figure out what exactly the appeal is in the friendship between Reggie and Archie, because Archie is a genuinely nice guy (albeit a bit selfish and naive at times) and Reggie is a dick. They were football teammates but also strong rivals on and off the field; it doesn’t follow logically for Jughead that they’d be friends as well. He supposes there must be something in the team mentality that he doesn't understand.

 

Veronica had dragged him over to meet two of her bridesmaids, a redhead named Cheryl and a brunette named Nancy. Nancy seemed a little spoiled, like Veronica, but nice enough. Cheryl, on the other hand, was trying really hard to give off the vibe that she was evil incarnate - edgy black dress, heavy eyeliner, and long, red talons for fingernails. It was sort of working, in addition to what Jughead assumes is a terrible personality. She'd taken one look at his ratty jeans and plaid - it was his _good_ flannel, at least - and raised a judgmental eyebrow before slinking off with Nancy in tow.

 

Bitches, he’d thought. Sure, it’s a snap judgment, but his gut is not usually that far off.

 

The maid of honour isn't yet in attendance (“she's at work, like always, honestly”, Veronica had said), and it’s apparently _imperative_ that Jughead meet her later. He’d sighed and nodded before going back to his corner table, mildly annoyed that this girl couldn't just show up on time so he could meet her and then leave early as planned. Judging by the other bridesmaids - and the bevy of rich-bitch princess types currently crowding the bar - Jughead doesn't have high hopes for this last girl.

 

Veronica at least is mildly tolerable. He's met her before, but they haven't spent that much time together. Archie was in New York with her, and Jughead back in Riverdale with his sister, so he’d only seen her the few times that Archie had dragged her back to his dad's for holidays. These were also the primary times that he saw Archie - he'd been out to visit him in New York twice, but more time to get away wasn't exactly easy to come by when his little sister, Jellybean, needed him.

 

Now that she’s legally an adult and in college, he has all the free time in the world. It's fucking _weird._

 

One of the primary advantages to being in NYC now is the ability to actually see Archie. Today he's milling about, talking to friends and family and doing the blushing-groom thing, but Jughead hopes that soon they can find some time for video games and pizza like they'd grown up doing. Jughead doesn't hold many things as precious, but his friendship with Archie is one of them. They have the kind of friendship that you can't make anymore, the kind you have to be born into, almost - and they essentially had been.  Fred Andrews had been best friends with FP Jones, and Archie and Jughead had grown up together. There is some tired adage - _you can’t make old friends_ \- and loathe as Jughead is to embrace a cliché, it does seem true. No matter how different they are or how far they’d drifted over the years, there is very little he wouldn't do for Archie. That included suffering through this engagement party.

 

“Hey Jug.”

 

Jughead looks up from his coffee to see Fred Andrews standing in front of him. “Oh hey Fred,” he greets. “Should’ve figured you’d be down for this.”

 

The older man smiles and gives a half-shrug. “Yep. Mary’s here too somewhere - so I’m avoiding. Can I sit?” He gestures to the other side of Jughead’s secluded booth.

 

“Yeah, sure.” Jughead adjusts his seated position so he can more easily face Fred, and gives him a rare smile.

 

Fred is another Andrews man that Jughead holds dear. He’s known Fred his whole life; he’s has always gone above and beyond for Jughead and his sister. Jughead remembers barbecues at the Andrews house as a little kid, playing soccer with Archie while their parents (all still happily married, in pre-Jellybean years) mingled on the deck. Fred owned the construction company where FP was a foreman, so there were a lot of after-work beers while the boys played and the women chatted. Jughead likes to remember these days as being idyllic - before everything went to hell.

 

Of course, they weren’t; once back at Sunnyside, the fighting would continue - the yelling, the crying, the slamming doors. There was a brief reprieve when Jughead’s younger sister Jellybean was born. Jughead doesn’t believe that either one of the Jones children was planned - that would have involved foresight on his parents’ part, and neither one of them would win awards for that - but JB’s birth brought about an uncharacteristic quiet period of about three months where there was no screaming, no holes in walls, and no broken bottles on the floor. But like everything his parents touched, that too ended sooner rather than later. When it would get really bad, Jughead remembers going for a lot of sleepovers at Archie’s. There was never yelling at Archie’s.

 

(There is more than one way to fall apart.)

 

Archie’s parents quietly divorced when he was ten. His mother moved to Chicago to join a new law firm, and he stayed in Riverdale with his dad. Mary Andrews would visit once a month, and Archie would go there for every other holiday. It was an organized deconstruction of their family unit, calm and amicable.

 

Jughead’s family, on the other hand, seemed to implode with all of the drama that the Andrews had avoided. By the time he was eleven, his mother, herself not a very stable woman, had grown very audibly tired of his father’s further descent into life with the Southside Serpents, a gang who ran drugs from the city to upstate New York. So one Tuesday morning, she’d sent Jughead off to school, packed up her bags, and left for Toledo with his three-year-old little sister. He didn’t see either of them for three years, not until his mother came home just long enough to drop off a now six-year-old Jellybean and then leave permanently.

 

From what Jughead could tell, her absence had only served to worsen FP’s condition. He drank more and got further involved with the Serpents’ drug business. Jughead’s presence or well being was never a deterrent, and so he quickly stopped trying for it to be. Instead, whenever his father chose drugs or crime over his family and friends, there was Archie and Fred. Fred let him sleep in the spare room on and off for three years, and when Jellybean came back she would come too. Jughead remembers being fourteen, making shadow puppets on the walls to entertain his little sister until she fell asleep, then waking up early to double her on his bike to her elementary school.

 

Through it all, Fred was there for them, his former best friend’s children; and when the drugs finally sent FP to prison, he was still there.

  
Jughead had just turned eighteen and Jellybean newly ten when FP went away for the final time. Criminal possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute, fifteen years with the potential for less with good behaviour. Not short enough for a man with a ten-year-old daughter. During the court proceedings, Jughead made it his mission to become as suitable a guardian as possible. He’d already been enrolled in university, having gotten early acceptance to Columbia for journalism, but he transferred it to an online program and got a job in Riverdale (full-time on Fred’s construction crew). Somehow, partly due to the lack of suitable foster families and with the notarized promise of Fred’s support, Jughead got temporary guardianship of Jellybean. He’d hoped it would only _need_ to be temporary, anyway - that somehow his mother would come back or his father would get out of prison early and this whole nightmare would be over - but before he knew it, eight years had passed and Jellybean was legally an adult.

 

Jughead remembers the day that she announced that she was moving to New York for college - with a full ride to NYU. He recalls the mix of strange emotions that had swirled - fear, pride, envy. New York had been his out once, too, before she’d become his responsibility. He remembers hugging her and celebrating with burgers and milkshakes at Pop’s, then leaving her to hang out with her friends.

 

He usually thrived on solitude, but later that night, absolved of his final responsibility, Jughead had never been more lonely.

 

In the end, they’d both moved to New York. She was going anyway, and if she was gone there was little left for him in Riverdale. Jughead had finally acquired his undergrad degree in journalism, the product of a great many late nights and empty coffee cups, and in the year prior had been freelancing from his trailer on the south side. A move to New York was the logical the next step in the writing career he’d dreamed of as a boy. The dream that he’d put a pin in might actually have a chance, he thought, and surprisingly Jellybean had liked the idea of him coming with her.

 

So he’d found a dumpy but relatively cheap apartment near NYU, hugged Fred goodbye, and left Riverdale for good.

 

And now he’s here, in an overpriced bar in Chelsea, surrounded by people who have never had a care in their lives, sipping black coffee across from his best friend’s father.

 

“So the big day - they set the date, did you hear?” Fred asks.

 

Jughead nods. “September 8th, next year. Gives them about a year to plan.” He chuckles. “I don’t imagine that process will be fun for Archie.”

 

Fred raises his eyebrows. “Oh, I think you’ll get in on that too,” he comments. “Veronica seems like she wants everyone pretty involved, or so I hear.”

 

Jughead makes a face and looks over for her, turning back to Fred when he doesn’t immediately locate her. “Great.” He grimaces. “I guess I’ll deal with that when it comes. How’s business?”

 

“Going not bad,” Fred reports, leaning back in the booth and grabbing his beer. “Believe it or not, I found someone to replace you.”

  
“Oh yeah? What’s he like?”

 

“Well, he’s not a smartass, to begin with, and he doesn’t wear a hat on his head twenty-four-seven.” Fred grins and winks as he takes a swig of his drink. “But I think he’ll do well. Young kid. How’re things with you guys? How’s JB?”

 

“She’s good. First week of classes and all.” Jughead shrugs. “Seems excited. Ask again at midterms and we’ll see what the response is then.”

 

Fred laughs. “Fair enough. And you? You get a job?”

 

“Yeah, construction,” Jughead says. “Just for now, to pay the bills so Jellybean doesn’t have to work. Trying to get an in with one of these papers, but it’s only been a couple weeks. Keep your fingers crossed for me.”

 

Archie calls out for his dad then, and Fred nods at his son before looking back at Jughead. “They always are, Jug. But you don’t need the luck. You never have.” Fred reaches across the table and shakes Jughead’s hand. “I’ll be buying your books before I know it. Don’t be a stranger, okay kid?”

 

“Sure, Fred.” Jughead gives him a little salute and then returns to brooding over his coffee.

 

He’s playing Words with Friends on his phone while simultaneously trying to determine what the socially acceptable amount of time someone needs to be at an event before they can leave is (he’s been here for an hour and a half now; surely that’s enough time?) when someone new approaches his table. Jughead doesn’t notice at first, but a soft feminine voice clears her throat and he looks up.

 

His initial impression is full of the Obvious Things: she’s blonde, she has green eyes, she’s slender. She’s also strikingly beautiful, which is usually not something Jughead cares too much about - he hasn’t had that many girlfriends in his twenty-six years, not that he’s also had much of an opportunity - but with this girl, it’s too clear to ignore. Her light blue dress is tight on the torso and flares at her hips to just above her knees, highlighting her natural curves in a far more tasteful way than most of the other girls at the party. She looks sort of like a painting come to life, or a modern-day Helen of Troy, if there ever was one. Only he doesn’t have a thousand ships to launch in her honour, and a girl like this would never want him to be her Paris.

 

Meaning she wants something _else,_ and he’s not here for whatever that is.

 

“Hi, I’m Betty,” she says, sticking her hand out politely. “Can I sit?”

 

Jughead shakes it with a slight frown. “Okay,” he says, and she immediately slides in across from him.

 

Betty folds her arms primly across the table and leans in. “You’re Jughead, right? Archie’s best man?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Figured. Veronica told me the best man would be wearing a beanie.” Betty smiles warmly and taps her head. “Nice crown.”

 

Jughead doesn’t return the smile. “Thanks.”

 

“Anyway, I’m the maid of honour! I figured, we’re going to be in the wedding party together - we’ll be paired together! - so I should introduce myself. I just got off work, or I’d have been here earlier, but I work at _Bon Appetit_ as a web editor and we had a last-minute meeting--”

 

Jughead holds a hand up, and her voice falters. “I’ll let you stop there,” he says. “No offense, Princess, but I don’t think we need to be friends just because we’re both in a wedding party.”

 

Betty looks taken aback, her eyebrows quirking awkwardly. She must not be the kind of girl that frowns a lot either, Jughead thinks - the world’s very own Mary Sunshine. Not what he needs in his life.

 

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes with a slight hint of ice in her tone, getting up right away. “I didn’t mean to intrude on - whatever you’re doing.” She turns on her heel without waiting for a reply, blonde ponytail bouncing after her.

 

Jughead watches for a moment, shakes his head, and turns back to his game. It’s not that he necessarily enjoys mildly offending perfectly nice people, but he’s not really in the market for new friends. And people like her - the bubbly, happy-go-lucky, overly friendly type - have never had any place in his life. They run from him, offended by the darkness he likes to wear on his sleeve like armour. And while he’s sure that this Betty girl was only trying to be polite, the road to hell truly _is_ paved with good intentions.

 

Jughead should know; he’s been there more than once.

 

He makes another trip to the snack table, and when he’s done with that serving, Archie comes to drag him off to meet someone else. Jughead wolfs down the last of his pigs in a blanket and follows him as he, Moose, and Reggie are led to a well-lit table near the front of the restaurant.

 

There at the table is _her,_ the blonde he’d just met, sitting beside Veronica. Betty, he remembers faintly. Her doe eyes run down the line of men that have just arrived and her full lips smile at each one, until she gets to him.

 

“Guys, this is Betty,” Archie announces, gesturing to her. He stops talking and shoves his hands in his pockets, making no movement to say anything further.

 

“Betty Cooper,” Veronica interjects, giving Archie a look. “She’s my former college roommate and best friend slash maid of honour. Betty, this is Moose on the end here, he went to high school with Archie.”

 

Moose, also a nice person, smiles happily at Betty. “Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking her hand.

 

“Moose has the most delightful girlfriend, Midge,” Veronica says to Betty. “You’ll definitely have to meet her.” She smiles at Moose, then moves down the line to Reggie. “This is Reggie, also from high school.”

 

Reggie winks at her, and instead of shaking her hand he kisses her fingers. “Reginald Mantle,” he states. “May I say how beautiful you--”

 

“She’s not going to sleep with you, Reggie,” Veronica interrupts, rolling her eyes. “Betty, I know he may look appealing, but he’s not.”

 

“Noted,” Betty says with a polite, amused smile. “Good to meet you too, Reggie.”

 

“You wound me, Ronnie,” Reggie says, clutching his heart.

 

Veronica raises an eyebrow at him dismissively. “You’ll survive, I’m sure.” She then points to Jughead. “And this is Jughead, Archie’s best friend since they were both in diapers, basically. He just moved here.”

 

Jughead presses his lips together, preparing for a neutral “hello”, but Betty beats him to it. “We’ve met,” she says flatly to Veronica. “How _lovely_ to see you again, Jughead.” Betty turns to her friend. “I have to use the ladies room. Come with?”

 

“Obviously.” Veronica stands up and turns toward the groomsmen. “Thank you boys, that’s all. Come, Betty.” She holds a hand out to the blonde, who takes it and follows her down a side hallway toward the restrooms.

 

Archie is already giving Jughead a look, one that plainly reads, _what the hell did you do?_ He responds with a shrug and goes back to his corner hideout, sliding in next to his coffee with a heavy sigh. He can tell that this wedding process is going to be even less bearable than Jughead had anticipated - and he’d already had pretty low standards.

 

He downs the rest of his coffee, which is now cold and stale, and sets the mug down on the heavily varnished wood table. It’s just a year, he thinks. A year, and then save for Archie, he’ll never have to see any of these people again.

 

\---

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this, please leave me a comment and let me know! :) Comments and kudos are my lifeblood.
> 
> As I noted earlier the updates to this are likely to be less frequent than my previous work, but I'm aiming for at least once a week, if not twice. We'll see how it goes.


	2. two

_“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.”_

  * Iain Thomas



 

 

Betty’s breezy skirt brushes against her knees as she leans across her desk to grab her cell phone. It’s a solid burnt orange colour, autumnal in spirit if not in fabric, much like New York in late September. The skirt itself is not that new, having been a late birthday gift from her mother a few months prior, but she’s only getting around to wearing it now. Her dress code at work is a bit uncertain - some people seem to wear jeans, other people come in suits, and still others fall somewhere in the middle - but Betty has always wanted to err on the side of “professional but creative”. So even though she’s really more of a sneakers and jeans sort of girl, since getting a job at _Bon Appetit,_ she’s leaned pretty heavily into the business-casual side of the fashion world.

 

She puts her cell into her bag next to her laptop and slings it over her shoulder. Betty double-checks that all of her files are put away neatly before turning off her desktop computer and heading out of the office. She makes polite conversation with a coworker as they wait for the elevator, then preoccupies herself with fiddling with her watch for the ride down from the thirty-fifth floor. Betty waves goodbye to the coworker and strides confidently past organized lines of tourists who were all queueing to go through security before heading up to the observation floors of One World Trade Center.

 

In a million years, Betty didn’t think she’d be working in a major Manhattan skyscraper, but then she’d gotten a job working for _Bon Appetit,_ renown lifestyle and cooking magazine - and here she is, the kind of girl who takes a stroll down through the Financial District after work. _Her,_ little Betty Cooper from New Hampshire.

 

(Dreams came true - sort of, anyway.)

 

Betty slows her pace once she reaches Battery Park. She observes the turn of the leaves, noting that not all of the green has fully left yet. Soon, she thinks, watching a few stray tourists run up to the rotunda building selling tickets to the Statue of Liberty. She smiles at a couple of kids playing on the grass, then makes her way to the concrete seawall. She slips her flats off and perches on one of the benches, facing out at the dying day.

 

It’s not her dream job, really. It’s a start, and it’s a hell of a good start for someone who’s her age, but _Bon Appetit_ isn’t really the pinnacle of what she’d imagined. It manages to combine her love of cooking with her desire to break into publishing and other areas of industry, but she’s more interested in investigative reporting than editing web posts about the best way to make homemade donuts. And truthfully, even within the Condé Nast family, it’s not her top pick.

 

Because Betty Cooper is a walking cliché: a privileged middle-class girl from New England who wants to write for the _New Yorker._ Or at least - that was the dream ten years ago, before she discovered the real power of the internet. Even if the _New Yorker_ never happens, Condé Nast has a lot of great publications in the family, and she figures that any of them would be an acceptable place to hang her hat for the day.

 

But by night - well, by night she has Blueprint, the website she’d founded to document various goings-on around New York City (Manhattan, specifically, although she’s looking to recruit for Brooklyn and Queens). Betty publishes articles from herself and from other contributors, although none of them make money, per se. It’s all about exposure and experience, and there are a _lot_ of desperate freelancers in Manhattan that want both of those things. She’s got a couple of regulars (like Kevin, also a personal friend, who covers LGBT+ issues), but apart from that most of the feed is built from submissions and other pieces that she’s written from anonymous tips that she occasionally receives.

 

Nothing is really _scandalous,_ but they are moving. Last month, she’d gotten her first major breakthrough when an article she’d written and published online had found its way into some more established print papers around the city. It was an exposé on unregulated restaurants in Chinatown which outed several Department of Health officials, resulting in the firing of two. Since then, the hits on the site have been more steady, and Betty is always on the lookout for the next big thing.

 

Because this is the new dream: that it turns into something. She’s not sure exactly what, but Betty gets more of a thrill and more satisfaction from every hit on her site than she does from anything she’s ever done at her actual paying day job. Plus, as much as she respects physical publications - especially as the daughter of town newspaper owners - Betty knows that the future of the business is digital. A platform like the one she’s trying to build may be just the thing, if she can expand it the right way.

 

She checks her phone briefly. Her Blueprint email has a few unread messages. Betty is tempted to click on them, but she decides to wait until she’s back at her apartment with WiFi and her journals so she can secure proper documentation (if necessary, of course). Instead, Betty watches the gentle waves for a few more minutes, then gets off the bench and heads for the train.

 

She’s at her place within half an hour, a tiny studio in Chinatown (ironically two stories above one of her unregulated establishments). It has a small kitchen, which really impedes her cooking space; to compensate for the lack of counters, Betty has transformed her little bar-height kitchen table into what is now essentially an island at the edge of the kitchen space. It works for her, but the unintentional result of this is that Betty has nowhere to actually work.

 

Enter her coffee table, which is less of a coffee table and more of a desk that she sits, eats, and sleeps at. There is a double bed shoved into the corner, with her clothes neatly organized in a wardrobe nearby, but most nights Betty falls asleep on her worn sofa. When she wakes, springs poking into her side, she’s regularly thankful for her youth and relative athleticism - because she knows that one day, she’s definitely going to develop some kind of excruciating back problems if this continues.

 

Although her place is small, it _is_ clean and nicely decorated. Betty’s tried hard to put her mother’s influence behind her with the move to the city, but some habits die hard. Like cleanliness - which isn’t the worst of what she could be bringing back with her from Alice Cooper, in reality.

After changing into shorts and a t-shirt, Betty grabs one of the batch-cooked salads she’d produced on the Sunday prior and shakes some balsamic onto it. She plops down cross-legged on her couch and opens her submissions for her website. As she eats, Betty reviews them: there are three that she dismisses as low-level, but the fourth catches her eye. It’s misspelled and in poor English, but it seems to indicate something regarding “hiding people” and shipping containers at the docks in Brooklyn. Betty does a quick google search and realizes the shipping port the tip must be referring to is Red Hook in Brooklyn, just southeast off the tip of the island of Manhattan.

 

It could be a wild goose chase, she knows. But it could also be something else altogether.

 

Betty bites her lip and flags the email for further research. Maybe she would go tomorrow evening after work to check it out. She has a couple of articles from Kevin to edit before posting, but just as she’s settling in, her phone buzzes. It’s Veronica, of course, because Betty’s social circle seems to have only gotten smaller as she’s gotten busier.

 

  ** _D_** ** _rinks at Rusty’s Bar tomorrow, five-thirty. Can you make it? First wedding party drinks!_**

 

Betty sighs. She loves Veronica, she really does. When they’d first met as roommates in college, she hadn’t initially been so sure - Veronica had gone on and on about wanting to live on campus as part of “the authentic college experience; adorable, right?!”, which had been a little weird for Betty, who was living there because she had no other options. Over time, though, Veronica had grown on her, and she now considers her to be her best friend. She’s ecstatic about being the maid of honour. She likes Archie, too, and she wants nothing but the best day possible for the two of them. Veronica wants everything to be perfect, and Betty supports her wholeheartedly.

 

_But._

 

Veronica has unfortunately developed a strategy for the lead-up to her wedding whereby the members of her wedding party _must_ become friends. She’d mentioned it to Betty at a spin class once before the engagement party two weeks earlier, and had cited monthly drinks and attendance at major precursor events like the bridal shower, engagement party, stagette, and involvement in occasional plans like the cake tasting as examples of how she had envisioned the development of a distinctive group. Betty’s not against making new friends; in fact, she actively tries to expand her social circle. This is occasionally at odds with her time-consuming hobby of being a budding media empress, so it may not be a very effective strategy, but the point stands. New people are a net positive in her life.

 

Unfortunately, Betty also knows that not everybody is meant to be best friends. Some people simply don’t mesh well, and while she’s so happy that Veronica has met and fallen in love with Archie, there is no guarantee that Archie’s friends and her friends will get along great. Hell, there’s not even a guarantee that she can stand all of Veronica’s friends.

 

She likes Nancy; she’s known her for a while now, and they’ve always gotten along. Like Veronica, Nancy is from a fundamentally different world than Betty, but she’s a nice person at heart and always means well. Cheryl, on the other hand, is a different story. She’s always struggled to genuinely like Cheryl, but continues to try hard to do so because she knows that she’s important to Veronica. She also knows that Cheryl has had a hard go of it; sure, she’d grown up rich, but her parents have reputations of being assholes and her brother had been murdered when they were in high school. The difficulty is that - well, Cheryl is kind of a bitch, which isn’t a word that Betty generally supports the use of. Cheryl has often been outright rude to her, including commenting on Betty’s weight - something she’s always been self conscious of, as it was also a frequent sticking point with her high-expectations mother - and well, it’s _hard_ to be nice in return all the time.

 

But she is, anyway. Because that’s Betty’s thing: she’s _nice._

 

The groomsmen had been harmless, mostly. Moose was friendly - he seemed like he potentially wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, per se, but a good guy. The longer she lives in NYC, the more that counts to her than intelligence, anyway. Even Reggie was tolerable - an outrageous flirt, sure, but Betty’s dealt with that many times before and she will again. Besides, if he’s friends with someone like Archie, he likely is all bark and no bite.

 

But then there’s _him,_ the sullen best man with the funny name. Jughead Jones, sulking in the corner of a nice bar because he’d been required to interact with humans for a couple of hours. God forbid. The nice girl in Betty wants to give him the benefit of the doubt - maybe he’s had a hard go of it too, like Cheryl. He probably _has,_ statistically; in Betty’s experience people aren’t usually sad and mean for no reason. But she’s annoyed by him anyway - it’s Veronica and Archie’s day. He should be happy for them instead of antisocial. She’d only been trying to be polite. And she should keep trying, Betty knows, she should try to get in under his walls. Unfortunately, he’d really rubbed her the wrong way, so she knows there’ll be a bit of an extra step for them to get to before they can even start building anything remotely close to a friendship. _If_ Veronica’s mandate could be enforced, anyway.

 

They’re not exactly a uniform group, but Betty loves Veronica, and it’s Veronica’s day. So she replies.

 

**_Of course, V, I’ll be there._ **

 

\--

 

The next day, Betty wakes up late, having passed out again on the couch after posting one of Kevin’s new stories. She’d showered in a hurry and thrown on the first clothes she’d seen - skinny pants in a dark red colour and a white sleeveless top. She hadn’t had time to blow-dry or straighten her hair, so it’s down and in her natural unruly waves, a look she doesn’t tend to rock as a general rule since it always has seemed a little unkempt.

 

She makes it to work on time, and having also forgotten her lunch, skips the midday meal in favour of continuing to work so that she can leave a little early. Betty manages to get all of her work done for the day, and by the time she leaves at 4:45, she's starving.

 

There are already people there when she arrives - Moose, who's brought his girlfriend Midge, Archie, Veronica, and Reggie. Betty slides in the booth next to Reggie, who fixes her with a charming grin almost immediately.

 

“Hey Betty. You look great.”

 

Betty smiles at him, slightly amused. “Thanks, Reggie. You guys been waiting long?” she asks Veronica.

 

Her friend shakes her head. “Nope! Still waiting on Nancy and Jughead. Cheryl can't make it,” she adds with a disappointed look, “but I get it. Her parents are in town, and her presence has been demanded.”

 

Betty nods in understanding. “I get it.” She smiles. “Good turnout though,” she assures Veronica, who smiles back. Betty turns her attention to the drink menu and begins to play the same game she always does with herself: which of these fancy cocktails should I order?, which is almost always followed by her giving up and ordering a pint of craft beer.

 

It happens again, and five minutes later a milky stout arrives in front of her. Nancy comes not long after that, and they start chatting about her upcoming trip to Italy with her parents. Nancy is in the middle of describing the schedule for their Tuscan wine tour when the door to the bar opens and Jughead walks in, half an hour late.

 

Betty opens her mouth to greet him, but the words die on her tongue. He's still wearing the same beanie he'd had on when she'd met him, but this time he - well, he looks hot, if she's going to be honest. Some of his hair has escaped the hat, falling in front of his eyes in soft waves, and he's wearing a pair of dusty jeans that seem to fit him very well. A plaid shirt dangles from his fist, but instead of wearing it he's in a white undershirt that clings to what is actually quite a lean, muscled torso. Betty would have never guessed under all the layers.

 

Betty finds her voice eventually. “Hi,” she greets as he slides in beside her, recalling her vow to herself to be nice.

 

“Hey,” he says gruffly. “Uh. Sorry in advance, I just got off work and might be a bit…musty, let's say.”

 

A smile crosses her face at the comment before she can stop herself. “You don't smell,” Betty promises. “Where do you work?”

 

“A site uptown.” Jughead has a strange expression on his face - it's not quite embarrassment, but it's far from pride. Betty can't exactly place it. “Construction. For now,” he adds quickly, “I'm on the lookout for a writing job.”

 

“Writing!” Betty exclaims. “Really?”

 

Jughead gives her an odd look. “Some of us in the lower class can use our words, yeah,” he responds. “I have a journalism degree and have been freelancing, but until recently I was in Riverdale, so it's hard to make connections.”

 

This piques her interest. Betty wouldn't have pegged him for a writer - the brooding vibe did make some sense, actually, but he had seemed too angry to also have the patience required for it. “Where's your degree from?”

 

“Columbia.”

 

“Me too!” Betty exclaims. “How did I never have you in a class before?”

 

“I did mine online and through correspondence,” Jughead says. Betty notes the evasive edge in his tone, but figures that if there’s something there to elaborate on, it’s not her business. “Had to stay in Riverdale. Worked for Archie's dad.”

 

“My dad owns a construction company,” Archie puts in helpfully as he leans across the table, having evidently overheard part of their conversation.

 

Betty smiles at Archie. She'd met his father (Fred, she thinks, but isn’t sure) at the engagement party and had spent a little bit of time talking to him. Of that, she does recall some talk about construction. She glances over at Jughead for further comment.

 

He just nods and takes a swig of his beer. “Yep.”

 

She raises an eyebrow. “Anyway, so you've always wanted to be a writer?” Betty asks, and when he nods again, she continues. “Me too! My parents own a regional paper in New Hampshire and I grew up hearing all about the-”

 

“No wonder,” Jughead mutters.

 

Betty stops her train of thought and quirks her head. “Pardon me?”

 

“I saw you looking at me when I walked in,” he states. “Like, look at this dusty greaseball. And your parents own a paper - come on. Look, Betty, not all of us have parents in the industry to give us a leg up. Some of us need to break our backs to claw at the bottom rung of that ladder you helicoptered up.”

 

Betty's jaw drops. She feels a little bit like she's been hit in the face. She would have _never_ judge someone for working a blue collar job. Sure, her parents did fairly well, but it hadn't always been like that. Betty remembers the nights where she would lay awake listening to her parents argue over money, because circulation just wasn't good enough that month, and they needed better distribution. Hard work was hard work, and she takes it as a personal offense that he thinks she didn't earn her way to where she is.

 

“Screw you,” Betty seethes quietly, keeping her mouth neutral but her eyes burning steel. She refuses to make a scene, but she isn't going to take this. “How dare you accuse me of passing judgment on you, then turn around and do the same thing to me. I have been nothing but nice to you. I don't know who - who _peed_ in your cornflakes, Jughead, but I’ve had a long day and I would prefer if you found someone else to take it out on. Excuse me.”

 

She pushes past him out of the booth and goes to the ladies room, frustrated and irritated. She waits in there for a few moments until she's calm, digging her nails in, then cleans her palms before heading back out. Betty intentionally sits next to Nancy when she returns, ignoring Jughead, and feigns interest in her trip once more.

 

She manages to avoid looking in his direction for the rest of the night, still beyond annoyed. When it seems as though everyone is getting ready to head out, Betty grabs her bag from the opposite side of the bench as quickly as she can. She bids farewell to Archie and Veronica, then slips through the front door of the bar and turns right to get to the train.

 

Betty is about halfway down the block when someone calls her name. She stops, turns, and is surprised to see Jughead jogging up. He’s got his plaid on now, worn open over the white undershirt, but his collarbones curve out of the shirt and much to Betty’s chagrin, he’s still attractive. “Yes?” she asks, crossing her arms and fixing him with what she hopes is a stony glare.

 

“I want to apologize,” he says, slightly breathless as he reaches her. “I was out of line earlier. I’m sorry.”

 

Betty purses her lips briefly and considers the apology. She wishes she were the kind of person who could make him sweat it out, but his eyes are plainly sincere and she can tell he means it. So she gives in. “It’s alright,” she says. “I just - none of what you said was true. My parents do own a paper, but it’s only big in New Hampshire, and honestly, they were no help in breaking into the industry.” She flicks her eyes across his face, watching his microexpressions change. He has nice cheekbones, she thinks. “Also, I promise I wasn’t judging you for working construction.”

 

Jughead brings a hand to the back of his neck and rubs it awkwardly. “Sorry. It kind of seemed like you were looking. Sometimes Veronica’s fancy-rich friends can be, uh--”

 

“Assholes?” Betty finishes with a knowing smile. “Yeah, I get that impression at times too. But they’re all nice people once you get to know them. They have just had a totally different experience than me, and than you have, I’m guessing. You might need to learn how to give people the benefit of the doubt.” She presses her lips together and feels her cheeks begin to heat up as she adds, “And I _was_ looking at you, but uh - not to judge you.”

 

Jughead raises an eyebrow, a smirk beginning to play at his lips. “Huh?” he prompts, sweeping a few stray locks of dark hair out of his eyes.

 

“It’s not the worst look,” Betty says in a rush, knowing she must be beet red. She waves her hand at him broadly, wishing she’d just shut the hell up earlier and not mentioned anything. “Just saying.” She begins to back up on the sidewalk. “I have to go,” she adds hurriedly, noting the widening of his smirk as she turns away. “See you around.”

 

\--

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, already so many kind reviews :) Thank you again and please continue to leave comments. They are so important to me! :) 
> 
> I know the two parts to this have been a bit shorter than my usual chapters, but these are on the short end of average length of chapters for this, according to my detailed plans anyway. Just some exposition here for you to sink your teeth into!


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this earlier than expected and was trying to wait til later to post this but it turns out I don't have any willpower, so here you are. :)

_“I am afraid that our eyes are bigger than our stomachs, and that we have more curiosity than understanding. We grasp at everything, but catch nothing except wind.”_

  * Michel de Montaigne



 

 

When Jughead agreed to be Archie’s best man, he knew there would be lots of stuff he’d be asked to do that he would dislike. Chief among them is this new aggressive requirement to be friends with everybody that Veronica knows, but there are other things as well that he isn’t looking forward to: the best man toast, picking out flowers, the bachelor party, mingling with members of the extended Andrews clan, and more. In fact - he anticipates disliking nearly _everything,_ apart from getting to see his best friend be happy. And _this._ This, he would do twenty-five times if they asked.

 

Cake tasting.

 

Jughead isn't a foodie; at least not in the hipster, highfalutin sense of the word. He doesn't take Instagram pictures of nice plates or recommend restaurants online. But he _loves_ eating. Food is probably his favourite thing in the world, and he eats as much of it as he can get his hands on - thanking the powers that be for his metabolism and a job that involves manual labour. So when Archie had texted, apologetically letting him know that his presence was being demanded for the cake tasting, Jughead was over the moon.

 

Plus, there are way less people than at Veronica’s regular “wedding party drinks”, as she’s calling it. This time it’s just Veronica, Archie, himself, and Betty - or, there _will_ be Betty, allegedly. She hasn’t arrived yet, which is a bit odd. It’s a Saturday, so it isn’t like she’s at work - and she doesn’t strike him as the type to be late as a matter of personality.

 

Of course, he’s not really dwelling on it - firstly, of course, because he’s about to test eight different flavours of cake, and he’s pretty damn excited about it. And then secondly - well, he’s been feeling sort of awkward about Betty ever since they’d been for drinks a couple of weeks prior and he’d outright offended her. Jughead didn’t typically care what people thought of him, but she’d looked so _sad._ And yeah, he had been a total asshole to her, completely unwarranted. She’d been nice enough to forgive him afterward, too (even sort of insinuating that she found him attractive, which had caught him off guard), which really just added to the guilty he felt over it.

 

She’s just trying to be friendly, Jughead knows. It’s just that it isn’t that often that he comes across someone with that intention. Nice people generally steer clear of him, which has suited him fine, really - but apparently, Betty Cooper didn’t give up that easily. Clearly, she’s taking her commitment to this wedding _very_ seriously; although, if she doesn’t arrive at the cake tasting soon, there’s a strong likelihood that Veronica will murder her.

 

Just as he’s contemplating which way Veronica would choose to dispose of a body, the door to the bakery opens and Betty rushes in. She’s uttering apologies before she’s even got her jacket off, sliding in beside Jughead as she does so. She hangs her coat over the back of the chair and shakes her blonde hair over her shoulders.

 

“I am _so sorry,_ V, I got caught up at the docks,” Betty says, making a regretful face at her friend.

 

Veronica sighs. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here, though.” She glances over at Betty and leans down to check something under the table, then sits back up. “Is that where you got that big smear of dirt on your leg?”

 

Jughead glances down and over. The left leg of Betty’s tight khakis has a long smudge of dirt across it. She rubs at it with futility for a few moments and then gives up, looking back at her. “Damn it. Yes,” Betty says, embarrassed.

 

The wedding coordinator of the bakery enters then, smiling when she sees that all of the seats are finally filled. “Okay, Miss Lodge, Mr. Andrews, and guests, the first selection is a strawberries and cream filling with the option for either buttercream frosting or a fondant exterior.” She waves her hand, and an attendant brings out four small servings of a vaguely pink-looking cake.

 

Jughead digs in, wolfing down his portion in less than a minute. “I like it,” he declares to Veronica and Archie. To Betty, he asks, “Sorry, did you say you were at the docks before this? Which ones? Doing what?”

 

“Betty is on a suicide mission,” Veronica interrupts, giving her friend a look when Betty rolls her eyes. “She got some tip on that website she runs and now she’s been hanging around the docks in Brooklyn trying to save the world.”

 

Jughead is even more confused after Veronica’s explanation. “Uh - sorry, what? You have a website?”

 

Betty takes a bite of her cake and chews slowly before swallowing. “Have you heard of _Blueprint?”_ she asks.

 

Jughead thinks for a moment. It rings a bell - something about sanitation and the health department in Chinatown comes to mind, but he’s not overly familiar. “Yeah, I think so. Mostly local city issues, online-only thing?”

 

“Yeah.” Betty shrugs and raises a finger to point at herself slightly. “That’s me. And other contributors,” she adds hastily, “but I edit it, manage it, run it.”

 

Jughead raises his eyebrows, impressed. He knew she worked for Condé Nast (jealousy looks good on nobody, he knows, but he’s wearing it here all the same), but he didn’t know that she also ran  website as a side project - especially one like that. “Wow, that’s awesome,” he comments.

 

Betty smiles. “Thanks!” she says to him, then glances at Veronica. “I like this one, but we should probably try some chocolate cake first, to be sure. Weddings often have white or white-based cake, but chocolate is just so much richer.”

 

“Good point, Betty.” As Veronica signals to the wedding coordinator that they’re ready for the next piece, Jughead turns to Betty again.

 

“So what’s this new piece you’re working on that Veronica mentioned?” he asks, genuinely curious. He’s always fancied himself as somewhat of an investigative novelist, _a la_ Truman Capote, although he’s never produced anything remotely close to that.

 

Betty smiles in gratitude as an attendant takes her empty plate, then looks at Jughead. She lowers her voice slightly as she speaks. He tilts his head curiously, listening harder. “A couple of weeks ago I got an anonymous tip to the _Blueprint_ email suggesting that there’s some activity related to human trafficking happening out of the Red Hook Container Terminal. So I’ve been monitoring some of the shipments there - obviously, a ton are just related to giant corporations, but there are some for smaller, less established companies that are prime targets for either infiltration or just outright being fronts for traffickers.”

 

Her eyes change as she speaks, from a clear green to a more intense shade. _Passion,_ Jughead recognizes. She’s really _in_ this. He respects that - although the protective side of him (which is seemingly always on the ready and has been that way since even before he got custody of Jellybean) doesn’t feel quite right about the idea of Betty hanging around the docks with dangerous criminals potentially around. He decides to bite his tongue on that for the time being, figuring that insulting her ability to take care of herself probably wasn’t going to help him climb out of the hole he’d already dug himself in with her.

 

Instead, he gladly accepts the devil’s food cake that’s handed to him and then asks a follow-up question. “So - have you found anything?”

 

Betty sighs, a flash of exasperation on her face. “Sort of. I made a listing of the small to medium sized companies who were listed, and I’ve been going back every day to check the new shipments. So I have a sub-list of common ones, and of those most of them seem to be above board, except a couple. I did a little more digging late last night, and both of them have had board members who were recently linked to some rather unscrupulous groups in Central Europe that have been known to be involved in trafficking girls out of places a bit further east, like Moldova and Ukraine. But since then I’m at a dead end - I went back again today, to try to see if anyone was hanging around, but I guess mid-afternoon on Saturdays isn’t exactly the best time to conduct your criminal activity. I might go back later tonight.”

 

He can’t hold it anymore. “Alone?”

 

She gives him a look. “I am a big girl.”

 

Jughead puts his fork down, cake unfinished. Archie glances over, alarmed. “Betty, these are _human traffickers._ Not health department bureaucrats who wanted extra cream in their coffee in exchange for looking the other way.” Fuck, this girl gives him anxiety. He barely knows her, but he _does_ know criminals, and he knows that even otherwise good people sometimes do bad things under certain circumstances.

 

“I know that,” she says, getting a little annoyed. “Let’s just focus on the cake for now, okay?”

 

Jughead sighs and nods. “Fair enough.” They _are_ here for a purpose, after all. He wolfs down the devil’s food, then in succession also eats the next five options that are presented. “I like them all,” he decides, and shrugs at the eyeroll from Veronica. “I know, I’m a lot of help. Fine, the raspberry cheesecake one was pretty deadly.”

 

“Thank you, Jughead,” Veronica says, shaking her head slightly with a smile. “Betty?”

 

“Yeah, that one was good - but the refrigeration of the cheesecake could get in the way. I do like the fruit-based ones, though, so maybe the strawberry.” She leans back in her chair and grabs her phone from her bag, quickly flipping through it in search of something.

 

She finds it after a short time, and scoots her chair closer to his as Veronica and Archie discuss the cake choices between themselves. Jughead looks over at her. “What?”

 

Betty shows him her phone. “This is the list of the appropriate sized companies that I couldn’t totally vette. These two-” she points to two called Sycamore FZ LLC and Paperbark Ltd. - “are the ones that had the sketchy board members. The rest seem kosher on the surface.”

 

Jughead scans the list. There’s a lot of generic names, that’s for sure. He also supposes that the smart thing to do would be to incorporate several companies with a variety of numbers-only names, but he also knows that it’s not always the smartest people who get involved in crime. That said, there’s something _odd_ about this list. He scans it again, scratching his neck, until suddenly it hits him.

 

“These two,” he says suddenly, indicating a name near the top and one closer to the bottom.

 

“Amur Inc. and Titarian Holdings?” Betty reads, peering in. “What about them?”

 

Jughead chews on his bottom lip for a moment. “There’s a gang in Riverdale that runs drugs out of state. They used to use these barrels of bourbon from Tennessee when they were on shipment stopover upstate. Anyway, they named all their drug barrels with the same theme. Fairy tales, colour-based, movies, you name it. It helps keep it obvious for some of the idiots that work for them without resorting to something blatant like alliteration.”

 

Betty’s eyes are twinkling with excitement now. “Okay. So what is it about these two?”

 

“Sycamore, Paperbark - those are both types of maple trees.” Jughead moves to continue explaining, but the vaguely amused look on Betty’s face stops him. “What? We tap a lot of maple syrup upstate. You’re from _New Hampshire._ Don’t tell me you don’t know anything about it.”

 

“City girl.”

 

“Uh huh. Anyway, Amur and Titarian are also species of maple trees.” Jughead hands her phone back to her. “I’d do a deeper dive on those two, just to be sure.”

 

Betty accepts her phone and puts it back in her purse, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I will, definitely,” she says. “I hadn’t considered that - patterns in the names. Thanks for the tip.”

 

“Anytime,” Jughead responds, just as Veronica and Archie finish up their conversation. Both of them turn to face their friends.

 

“We’re going with the devil’s food,” Veronica announces.

 

Betty grins widely. “Delicious!” she says. “I fully support that decision.”

 

Jughead almost wants to laugh at her. There’s no way she’s actually that excited about this, he thinks, but then again … she seems like one of those people that’s generous with her spirit as well as with her time and wallet. Those people have always seemed like wild cards to Jughead, mostly because he just doesn’t understand it. Clearly, either nobody has ever wronged them, or they are just mentally stronger than he is to be able to still rise above the bullshit around them.

 

“You think that’s the right choice, Jug?” Archie asks, clearly more for Veronica than for himself.

 

Jughead shrugs. “It’s food, man. It’s _all_ good.”

 

 

A few hours later, Jughead is deeply entrenched in the groove of his old used couch, one foot wedged between two cushions and the other propped along back against the wall. One hand is in a bag of chips as the other supports his head, which is turned to the side as he watches _Stranger Things_ for the fourth time. Jellybean is out a new friend’s place, so he’s living a happy evening of solitude.

 

On screen, Eleven has just finished rescuing Mike from dying a gruesome death by falling off the cliff overlooking the lake. Off screen, Jughead’s phone buzzes. He raises an eyebrow at it, as if he expected it to begin to recite the message, and withdraws his hand from the chips with a sigh. He wipes some of the grease off on his jeans, the grabs his phone and swipes it open.

 

There’s a new text message from an unknown number. Curious, Jughead clicks on it.

 

**_Holy shit, you were right. Titarian and Amur are both fronts, too._ **

 

Obviously Betty. He’s not sure how she got his number - he supposes probably from Archie via Veronica - but just before he can reply, another message comes.

 

**_I found a mutual associate of the CEO of Titarian and the Vice-Chair of Amur that did some time with one of the recently ousted board members of the other two._ **

 

Immediately after comes another message. **_You are a genius,_ ** followed by, **_by the way, this is Betty._ **

 

Jughead actually chuckles at that, which is more than a text has done in a long time. Since he’s alone, he doesn’t fight the grin that crosses his face when he replies with, **_I’ve been telling people that for years, glad it’s finally sticking._ **

 

He glances at the TV again and tries to re-immerse himself in the world of Hawkins, Indiana. It works for a little bit, but after a couple of minutes Jughead finds his eyes drawn toward his phone, hoping for a little highlighted envelope indicating a new message.

 

His wish comes true two minutes later, and he’s not exactly proud of how quickly he opens it. Solitude is Jughead’s best friend, but occasionally when boredom creeps in to join the party, it can turn to loneliness pretty fast. The message is just breaking the monotony, Jughead tells himself, and besides, he _is_ genuinely interested in Betty’s container mystery.

 

 **_You should write this with me,_ ** her message demands simply.

 

Jughead raises his eyebrows and presses his lips together as he considers it briefly. She’s got some connections, and this would be a great way for him to get a foot in the industry, as well as flex his investigative muscles. Really, the only downside is that she’s so bright and peppy, so unlike everybody that typically enters his life, and that constant exposure to her sunny personality might cramp his style a little bit.

 

Of course, he’s on his couch on a Saturday night eating chips out of the bag by himself, so he’s beginning to realize that maybe he doesn’t have much style to begin with.

 

So he decides to probe further. **_Is that a legitimate offer?_ **

 

 **_I pay in food,_ ** she replies almost immediately, **_and yes it’s a legitimate offer. You have great instincts. And confession time, I googled a couple of your pieces. You are also a great writer. So work with me on this. Please?_ **

 

Jughead chews his bottom lip, an old habit that he’d thought he’d long since grown out of, then taps his fingers on the keyboard of his phone to respond. **_If I say yes, you have to agree to indulge me and not go to the docks by yourself anymore. If this is legit, you shouldn’t be there alone. This isn’t a sexist thing, it’s a safety thing. Bottom line. Deal?_ **

 

Her next response takes longer than the others to come. In the interim, Jughead manages to watch Nancy and Jonathan get arrested with all of their monster-hunting gear _and_ finish his bag of chips. He goes to the bathroom to wash his hands, and when he returns there’s a text waiting.

 

**_Okay, fine. Deal._ **

 

\--

 

They aren’t able to coordinate a time to go back to Red Hook until the following weekend, but Betty has sent Jughead all of her files and research so far. To catch up, he spends Tuesday through Thursday nights on his couch after work, reading. The entire situation just seems sketchy - there seems to be a single corporation (clearly a shell company, and not a very well set up one at that) ordering product from all of the Central-Eastern Europe-based providers listed on Betty's manifest. Even if it’s not human trafficking, _something_ is definitely off. The trail seems to end as soon as the containers are unloaded and their contents taken away; unfortunately, Betty hasn't witnessed any of this activity occurring, so when they do go back it's likely to be at night.

 

Creeping around a dark harbour at night with potential human traffickers running around; what could possibly go wrong?

 

They're finally both available on Friday, but it gets moved to Saturday when Veronica decides to throw another party at a different bar uptown. This time, it's purportedly celebrating a promotion that Nancy received at work, though Jughead has a feeling that Veronica just likes playing host. She'd throw a party for _anything._ He contemplates telling her that he finally finished unpacking all of the kitchen utensils in his apartment, just to see if she decides it warrants a social gathering.

 

As it happens, once he’s actually at work on Friday he gets asked to stay late to cover a shortage on the second shift. Apparently, one of his coworkers has decided not to show up, which is annoying. If there’s one thing that truly irks Jughead, it’s unreliable people. He knows far too many of them to tolerate it anymore. So of course, he agrees. It’s not the foreman’s fault that Greg or Dan or whatever the hell his name is has decided to be a jackass.

 

The result is that he’s late to the party, quite literally. By the time he’s finished at the site, he has to swing by his apartment to take a shower because he’s disgusting and sweaty. What he really wants to do is just crawl into bed; twelve hours of construction work in a day is not the same at twenty-six as it was at seventeen, and his body is tired and achy. But he’s made a promise, and unlike Greg/Dan/Jackass, Jughead’s not unreliable. He might complain the whole time, but at a bare minimum, he’ll show up.

 

Besides, Betty’s going to be there, and Jughead wants to talk to her more about the following night at the docks. He’d figured out somewhat of a plan - that they wait until dark to enter, then stake out a couple of the newly arrived containers for a couple of hours - and he’s eager to get going on this. He’s not entirely sure if that’s also what Betty had in mind, so he wants to speak to her to briefly review strategy.

 

Jughead showers and gets dressed - undershirt, flannel, old jeans - and then heads uptown. He arrives at the bar in pretty good time and immediately scans the crowd for either Archie or Betty.

 

He finds Archie first, leaning up against the bar with Moose. Jughead heads in that direction, but then moments later, Betty finds _him._ He’s halfway to Archie and Moose when somebody practically leaps on him - arms are thrown around his neck, giggles fill his ears, and he’s treated to a face full of blonde hair. He reacts instinctively, steadying her with one arm around her waist, and clears his throat. “Uh. Hi?”

 

“Juggie!” Betty squeals, unwrapping her arms from him and bouncing down from the toes she was standing on. “Hi! You’re _heeeere!”_

 

 _Oh._ He gets it now. She’s drunk. Like, _really_ drunk. Her eyes are glassy and she seems to have poor control of her body, including swaying slightly as she stands in front of him. Jughead bites his lip to stop himself from laughing at her and continues to steady her with his arm. “Hey. Looks like you’re having fun.”

 

“Yeah,” she giggles, clutching his arm. “I left work early ‘cause Nancy got a _new job!_ Super great for her, I’m so happy!” She grins with the purest glee Jughead has ever seen on somebody, and if he wasn’t preoccupied with his mild concern over her alcohol intake he’d probably think it was adorable.

 

Jughead looks over at Archie and Moose with vague desperation, seeking some sort of assistance. Judging by the amused expression on Archie’s face, they’ve definitely noticed Betty’s enthusiastic greeting. Jughead quirks an eyebrow at Archie, which prompts his two friends to start walking toward them.

 

Betty is still talking, somehow. “...more plaid, I can’t believe there’s _another,_ not that it’s bad because it suits you but you might like some more variety--”

 

“I’m cool with my current selection of plaid, thanks,” Jughead cuts her off, a smile seeping through onto his face despite his best efforts to stop it. Archie and Moose arrive at their side, and he sighs audibly with relief. “Hey. Uh. How did this happen?” he asks Archie, gesturing toward Betty.

 

Archie grins. “The girls started early.” He points to a table just past Jughead, and when he turns around he sees Midge, Veronica, Nancy, and Cheryl piled into a booth, all clearly drunk. They’re a bit - well, the term _hot mess_ comes to mind.

 

Betty pokes Jughead’s arm hard. “I _told_ you, Juggie, we left work early!”

 

“Yeah, _Juggie,”_ Moose repeats teasingly. His grin only widens at the death glare Jughead shoots him, and he adds, “Arch and I got here around seven and they were already pretty far gone. It’s really just gotten worse since then.”

 

“Hey, I am _fine,”_ Betty interrupts, letting go of Jughead and putting both hands on her hips. She sways uncertainly and takes a step back to steady herself. It doesn’t really work, and Jughead puts a hand on her shoulder to keep her from tipping.

 

“Yeah, totally fine,” he agrees, chuckling. “Okay. Uh. Let’s go sit down, Betty, okay?”

 

“You got her?” Archie asks Jughead, nodding his head toward Betty. “Moose and I have been sort of watching the girls - the rest of them have been staying put, but Betty keeps running around talking to people and it’s been a little difficult to monitor.”

 

Betty’s poking finger hits Archie next, and he winces visibly at the force of it on his shoulder. “I’m being _friendly,”_ she insists, “I don’t know why people are so _offended_ by that.”

 

Jughead winces at her statement. Sure, she’s drunk, but it’s still clearly in relation to him, at least in part. He moves his hand from her shoulder to her waist and begins to move her toward the empty table next to the girls. “Come on, Betty, let’s sit down,” he suggests again.

 

“And _you,”_ she continues, whirling around inside of his arm. Betty opens her mouth, seemingly to continue ranting, but the words seem to fall away silently. She raises her hand toward him slowly, and Jughead freezes awkwardly as she indelicately fumbles her fingers against his cheek. “You have a nice face,” she says to him, a bit quieter.

 

Archie snorts behind her. There’s a gleeful expression on his face that Jughead knows well - he’s never going to hear the end of this. He glares at him again and grabs Betty’s hand, gently removing it from his face. “Thanks, Betty,” he says to her, tightening his grip on her waist as he walks her over to the booth.

 

When they reach it Betty climbs up happily onto the bench seat, crossing her legs and swinging her feet. Jughead can’t stop himself from briefly staring, because she’s wearing a fairly short skirt and well - he might be pretty repressed, but she’s got nice legs and she was just touching his face. He snaps out of it pretty quickly and moves to sit across from her, but she refuses to let go of his hand.

 

“Sit _here,”_ Betty implores, pointing to the spot beside her.

 

 _Christ._ “Okay,” Jughead agrees, not willing to fight with drunk-her over a place to sit. He plops down next to her, and she immediately turns sideways to face him. Her right leg is bent and resting on the booth, pressed alongside the outside line of his thigh; the action has drawn the hem of her already short skirt further up, and although nothing untoward is showing, Jughead finds himself challenged to avert his eyes from all of her skin.

 

 _Holy fuck, control yourself,_ he thinks to himself. He’s never been the kind of guy that was inescapably drawn to a girl; it’s not like he doesn’t have hormones and urges, but Jughead’s always prided himself on being further along the evolutionary chain than someone like, say, Reggie. And yet here he is, enticed by the sight of Betty’s thigh. Something about her is different, but he can’t figure out what.

 

“Are we still going to the docks tomorrow?” she asks him, drumming a terrible beat with her fingers on the table.

 

Jughead watches her hands, amused by her total lack of rhythm. “Yeah. I wanted to talk to you about that, actually. I was thinking that we--”

 

“I just want to _help,”_ Betty interrupts, stopping her drum session to look at him with big, earnest eyes, slightly unfocused though they may be. “What if there are really people in those containers? They’re probably scared and hurt, and when they get here those people will only hurt them _more.”_

 

Her eyes are beginning to water, and Jughead takes a moment to appreciate how quickly she’s able to progress through an entire range of emotions before he decides to try to counter them. “It can’t be good,” he agrees in a soft voice. “But try not to think about it for tonight, okay? We’re supposed to be celebrating Nancy, right?”

 

Betty’s eyes light up at that. “Yeah!” she whips her head around to the side to where Nancy is. “Another drink!” she announces to the girls, who all cheer.

 

Jughead winces at the noise. He definitely didn’t sign up for _this_ \- and yet, even though she’s clearly drunk off her ass and not in any condition to coherently discuss their newfound shared investigation, he’s not having a terrible time. He’s accustomed to being around drunk people, but they’ve generally always been people of his parents’ generation (including primarily, his father), and in those cases the constant intoxication is just sad. He’d almost forgotten that sometimes alcohol (used appropriately, obviously) can contribute to a fun time for people who aren’t trying to feed their addictions or heal deeply-felt emotional wounds.

 

So Jughead hangs out with Betty and Archie for the rest of the night, even having a few drinks himself, and honestly, it’s not the worst. By midnight, the exhaustion of his long day has really begun to catch up with him, and he’s ready to head home. Nancy’s boyfriend has long since left with her and Cheryl, both of whom were nearly falling asleep in the booth (apparently, not everyone could sustain celebrations with a mid-afternoon start time), Moose and Midge are getting ready to go, and Archie is trying to wrangle an equally drunk Veronica into her jacket.

 

Somehow, he’s been paired off with Betty, and Jughead comes to understand that it’s clearly his responsibility to make sure Betty gets home okay. He asks her for her coat check ticket, and when she produces it from inside her bra (his subsequent questioning of which only prompts a drunken rant about the lack of pockets in women’s clothing) he procures her jacket, red-faced. Betty shrugs it on, gives Veronica the kind of long, vaguely intrusive hug that only drunk girls seem to engage in, and then lets Jughead lead her outside to a cab.

 

“What’s your address?” he asks Betty, the cool autumn air biting at him a little.

 

Betty grins at him and twirls a little, nearly falling over on the sidewalk. She steadies herself with a light post and shrugs. “Guess!”

 

“No, I’m not guessing,” Jughead says, exasperated. His bed is seeming further and further away. “What is it?”

 

“I’ll never tell,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Did you ever see that movie? _Don’t Say A Word?_ Someone told me once I look like Brittany Murphy but I don’t think so, do you think so?”

 

 _Murder is illegal,_ Jughead reminds himself, trying to temper the new annoyance that rises slowly. To her, he says, “I don’t know,” and when he spots Archie and Veronica getting into an Uber he thinks, _fuck it._ “Fine, we’re going to my place. I am too tired for this.” Jughead opens the cab door for Betty and she falls into it in a giggling pile. He nudges her over unceremoniously and closes the door after himself.

 

The cab gets them to his apartment in about ten minutes, which is a hell of a lot quicker than the half-hour train ride would have been, even though it’s also pricier. Jughead doesn’t really mind; he doesn’t have a lot of extra cash to throw around, but he is totally unwilling to deal with drunk Betty on the subway at this hour, so it’s worth it.

 

Thankfully, Jellybean is already in bed when he pushes into the apartment, Betty still hanging off of him. The cab ride had nearly lulled her to sleep, and it had been a bit of an effort for Jughead to haul her out of it. She definitely owes him after this, he thinks. This investigation better pay in a _lot_ of food.

 

Jughead leads her into his bedroom and helps her out of the heeled ankle boots on her feet. He sets a pair of his sweatpants and a t-shirt on the bed and leaves her to change, but when he returns with a Gatorade and Advil Betty has already crawled into his sheets fully clothed. He sets the drink and pills on his bedside table and then backs out of his bedroom quietly, closing the door after himself.

 

“Do you have a girl in there?”

 

Jughead gasps in surprise as he whirls around to face his little sister. She’s standing with her arms crossed, dressed in an old band t-shirt and pajama pants. “Jesus Christ, Jellybean, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

 

She raises one pierced eyebrow. “Yeah, you caught me,” Jellybean answers, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been plotting your death for years, readying myself for this exact moment. Now _spill,_ is that a girl? Is she the one you’ve been texting all week? Are you finally getting laid?”

 

“She’s just a friend who needed a place to crash,” Jughead informs her. “Not that it’s any of your business. Go back to bed.”

 

Jellybean huffs. “Fine. But I _will_ find out.”

 

Jughead sighs, exasperated. If he isn’t asleep in five minutes, he’s going to have a mental breakdown, and he still has a bucket he wants to put beside the bed for Betty in case she gets sick in the middle of the night. “Jellybean,” he says warningly, and she raises her hands in surrender.

 

“Okay, okay. I’m going back to bed.”

 

He waits to hear the click of her bedroom door, then makes sure the apartment is locked before grabbing an empty ice cream pail and going back into his bedroom. He double checks to make sure Betty is laying on her side. She is, so he quickly pulls her hair back and sets the pail on the floor next to the bedside table. Typically, Jughead sleeps like the dead, so he's not convinced that he'll hear her if something is wrong and she needs help, so he wants his bases covered. 

 

He isn't an overprotective mom, as Jellybean has accused him of being in the past. This is just  _in case._

 

Really.

 

Jughead grabs a pair of pajama pants and then backs out of his bedroom. He changes quickly in the hallway and then collapses onto the couch in the living room. He doesn’t bother to cover himself with the threadbare blanket that rests along the back; all he needs is the soft surface and an old pillow under his head, and sleep overtakes him easily.

 

\--

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for the love and please leave me a comment! :)


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was on a bit of a roll, but this'll probably be the last frequent update for a while as I've got some other RL stuff on the go now.

_ “I'm a person who saves things. I'll hold on forever.” _

  * Jenny Han



 

 

The first thing Betty registers when she wakes up on Saturday morning is her headache. There’s a pounding behind her eyes that is roughly equivalent to someone using a jackhammer on her brain. She winces and lifts a hand to her face to rub at the bridge of her nose. Next time Nancy gets a promotion, there had better  _ not  _ be alcohol involved.

 

Her eyes open as her hand drags off her face and Betty sees the ceiling of a room that is definitely not her studio apartment. She has a moment of sheer panic before she realizes that a) she's still in her clothes from the night before; b) there's no telltale ache between her legs to indicate that she may have slept with anyone; and c) she's pretty sure that she remembers getting into a cab with Jughead, who while he may be kind of an asshole, seems like a trustworthy asshole at least. 

 

Turning her head to the side, Betty sees two pills and a bottle of Gatorade sitting on a side table. Beside the pills is a sticky note that reads “ibuprofen” in small, boxy printing. She smiles at it and sits up, downing the pills immediately. Beside the bed is a little empty bucket, presumably for her to vomit in if necessary.  _ Interesting,  _ she thinks; so he's that sort of guy. 

 

She looks around the room, taking it in. It’s neat and clean, with a small dresser and a bookshelf that's overflowing with paperbacks. There's a small desk wedged in the corner that has a laptop and a few legal pads piled on top. On the chair beside the desk is what looks like folded clothes, so Betty swings her legs out and goes over to check them out. It's a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, men's. Definitely Jughead. Betty unzips her skirt and begins to change into the clothes, but when she takes her top off, her hands brush her hair and she touches what feels like a loose braid. 

 

She  _ definitely  _ didn't braid her hair the night before, meaning that Jughead must have done it when she’d passed out - in case she got sick, Betty realizes, same as the bucket. Even if he wasn’t there in person, he’d be holding her hair back. She adds this to her mental list of new Jughead qualities from this morning and opens the bedroom door. 

 

Stepping out into a small hallway, she glances to the side and notes two closed doors. Behind one there is what sounds like a shower running, and Betty assumes that Jughead is obviously in there, which leaves the rest of the apartment to herself for the moment. So when she walks into the kitchen and sees a girl standing by the coffee maker in pajamas, she's a little surprised. 

 

The girl is slender, with short black hair, pale skin, and both eyebrow and nose piercings. She turns around to face Betty and smiles widely. “Oh, hi.”

 

Betty’s initial thought is that this is Jughead’s live-in girlfriend, although there are logically a lot of things wrong with that conclusion, starting with the fact that in that scenario she would have just slept in their bed without either one of them. Also, this girl can't be more than twenty years old, which seems a little young for Jughead - though he  _ is  _ a bit mysterious, so Betty supposes anything's possible. Nevertheless, Betty is the one in  _ her  _ apartment, so she returns the smile with what she hopes is an appropriate level of embarrassment. “Hi, I'm Betty. Sorry, I - is Jughead in the shower?”

 

“Yeah. It's his attempt to be less gross.” The girl presses the brew button on the coffee maker. “I'm Jellybean. JB for short.” Betty figures she must have a blank look on her face, because Jellybean adds, “Jughead's sister. Kind of.”

 

_ Sister?  _ He'd never mentioned having one, but now that the word is in her head, Betty has to admit that there is a bit of a resemblance. She nods in understanding, then pauses. “Kind of?” she repeats. 

 

Jellybean sighs and puts her hands on her hips. “Has he told you  _ nothing  _ about me?”

 

“Um … no,” Betty says, her voice full of apologies. “But we're - we just sort of met a while ago. You wouldn't have really come up, I guess.”

 

Jellybean wrinkles her nose. “Still. I’m awesome. He should mention me.”

 

Betty can't suppress her smile at that. As a great fan of juxtaposition, she loves that sullen, mopey Jughead has an outgoing sister with a bit of an attitude. “I'll tell him.” She touches her hair self consciously. “I think he braided my hair yesterday.”

 

Jellybean laughs and offers Betty coffee, which she gratefully accepts. “Probably. He's an overprotective dick,” she says fondly. “Jug has a lot of experience taking care of drunk people, with Dad and all. Plus, I went through a big braided hair phase when I was eleven so he got pretty good at it.”

 

Betty nods slowly, even more confused than before. She sips her coffee, torn between her endless curiosity and her desire to respect his privacy. 

 

Jellybean, on the other hand, doesn't seem concerned about oversharing. “I’m going to assume that this lost look on your face is because you have no idea what I’m talking about and not because you're obviously hung over. Don’t worry, I can explain. I  _ love  _ that Jughead has brought someone home, finally. After years of him embarrassing me - my turn.” She hops on the counter and swings her skinny legs. “Although - you’re super pretty, even with this Babyshambles morning-after vibe right now. Are you sure you want to slum it with Jughead?”

 

Betty opens her mouth in mild shock but nothing comes out except an uncertain exhalation. Jellybean grins.

 

“Just kidding, he said that you just needed a place to crash, which I assume means you’re not dating him. Though for the record, even though he’s my brother-slash-psuedo-dad and I think he’s super annoying, he is a really caring person and I’ve always hypothesized that he’d probably be a really good boyfriend to someone if he ever let himself have time for it. Which he doesn’t.”

 

Betty leans against the fridge, clutching her mug of strong black coffee, and smiles. Obviously, she’d (at least partially) misjudged Jughead; purely going off of what he’d already done to take care of her this morning, without even having seen him yet, Betty is pretty sure that Jellybean is right. But there’s still more she doesn’t understand. “Noted,” she says, biting her lip. “But um. Sorry, psuedo-dad?”

 

“Oh. Right. I’m getting ahead of myself.” Jellybean yawns. “Our dad is an alcoholic who’s also in jail and our mom ditched years ago, so Jughead was my legal guardian pretty much from when I was like, ten or eleven to now. But even before then he was basically raising me anyway. I guess old habits die hard, because even though he's finally free of the shackles of ensuring that I don't die now that I’m legally an adult, Jug followed me to New York anyway.”

 

“College?” Betty asks, her mind reeling with the new information. He’d said that he had to stay in Riverdale, hence getting his degree online - no wonder. It all makes so much sense now. And frankly, it’s kind of overwhelming. Betty’s pretty sure that he’s the same as her, and even though she sometimes feels like she’s an old person inside a young person’s body, she cannot  _ fathom  _ having spent the last seven or so years raising a teenage girl.

 

“Yeah, NYU,” Jellybean reports. “Undeclared so far, but I'll figure it out. I was thinking something environmental, I really like the sciences. Geography maybe, too.”

 

“That would be interesting,” Betty says, smiling. “Hey, do you guys want me to whip up some food?”

 

Jellybean opens her mouth to reply, but at that moment Jughead walks in the living room, one hand trying (and failing) to wrangle the sweep of his dark hair. “Yes,” he says by way of greeting, a smile tugging at his lips. 

 

Betty can't help but stare for a moment. He looks casual in the kind of way that people usually only are in their own homes; comfortable, relaxed, stress-free. He's got on grey sweats and a white shirt with the letter S across the front. His hair is wet and for the first time since she met him, he's not wearing that damn grey beanie. She's pleased to note that he doesn't have a giant bald spot underneath it; on the contrary, he actually seems to have quite a lush head of hair - some of which is falling across his eyes in what's not an unappealing way. She blinks slowly. 

 

“I seem to recall you saying you'll pay me in food,” Jughead continues, coming to Betty's side and looking down at her.

 

Betty has a lot of questions: has he always been so tall and attractive? And has she always had such poor control of her hormones? Aloud, she retorts, “You haven't  _ done  _ anything yet,” in an effort to snap herself out of her reverie. 

 

Jughead raises his eyebrows and looks at her with that fucking smirk on his face again. “Yeah, I was gonna talk to you about it yesterday, but someone was a little too distracted by José Cuervo to participate.”

 

Betty's face heats up. “Right. By the way, thanks for taking care of me,” she says, just as Jellybean hops off the counter, interrupting. 

 

“Hey, when you guys are done flirting and there's breakfast, can someone call me?” she says in a bored tone, sticking her tongue out at the look Jughead gives her. “I'll be in my room.” She gives a dismissive little wave and slinks back down the hallway. A minute later, Betty hears her bedroom door close and quiet music begin to play. 

 

Jughead sighs and rolls his eyes after her. “Sorry about her. I was hoping I could get out of the shower before you woke up and had to interact with her.”

 

Betty shrugs and smiles. “She's funny.” She raises an eyebrow at him and adds, “I didn't know that you had a little sister.”

 

“She's a demon,” Jughead says cheerfully, but Betty can see through him. He clearly loves her to death, especially if he surrendered half of his twenties to take care of her. Objectively, Jellybean could have gone to a foster home if their parents were unable to take care of her - but instead, he chose to stay in a small town when all of his friends were probably moving away so that she wouldn’t have to stay with strangers. 

 

It's beyond sweet, and adds a whole new dimension to Jughead. It also explains a lot about his behaviour. Betty doesn't think anything excuses rudeness, but she supposes she can understand how hardness would develop in a person that's been dealt several shitty blows in life. 

 

“By the way, as a disclaimer, I’m pretty sure she told me your life story,” Betty says, watching Jughead’s expression. He bites the corner of his mouth and nods slowly, glancing away briefly. A flicker of embarrassment cross his face and Betty frowns. This is not something he should be ashamed of. “I think it’s sweet,” she adds softly. “And honourable. I can’t imagine taking all that on.”

 

Jughead looks over at her. “It was an easy decision,” he says. “She’s my sister.”

 

“Still.” Betty chews her bottom lip. “Hey, I can make pancakes or something. You have ingredients?”

 

Jughead scratches his neck. “Yeah, I think so.” As he opens one of the cupboards and begins to search, Betty's eyes are drawn to his arms. He's not exactly built like a bodybuilder; rather, he's long and lean, with a nice layer of defined muscle on top, likely courtesy of his construction job. His triceps flex as he grabs a box of pancake mix from a high shelf, and she bites her lip. 

 

(Sure, it's been awhile for her, but  _ damn.) _

 

Betty takes the box from him and procures the rest of the ingredients, then begins to whip up some batter. As she does so, Jughead begins talking about the human trafficking case and his proposal to meet up tomorrow beforehand to choose a couple of the shipping containers to stake out. They agree on eight o’clock, so that they can get to a good location before the sun totally goes down. 

 

Betty flips a pancake and yawns. If she's going to be up late tonight, she'll have to get a pretty good nap in this afternoon. She slides a few more pancakes into a plate and hands it to Jughead, who calls for Jellybean to return so they can eat. 

 

 

She does the walk of shame (cab of shame? the semantics are unclear) about an hour later. Even though she’d literally just gone to sleep at somebody else’s apartment and not had a one night stand or anything remotely similar, Betty still feels kind of trashy walking into the hallway of her apartment in last night’s miniskirt and boots. Betty makes awkward eye contact with her neighbour and then quickly escapes into her unit, shedding her clothes and hopping in the shower immediately.

 

She calls Veronica on speakerphone as she’s getting dressed, needing to debrief about her morning. Her friend picks up when Betty is halfway into a bra. “Hello?”

 

“V,” Betty says, surprising herself with the amount of audible relief in her voice. “You would not believe my morning.”

 

Veronica’s laugh chimes through the phone. “Oh? Did it start somewhere unexpected?” she teases.

 

“Fuck you,” she says with affection. “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking. Uh. Apparently I refused to tell Jughead where I lived yesterday--”

 

“Valid.”

 

“--so at the end of the night he brought me to his place, and I woke up there.” Betty pulls on skinny jeans, hopping around to tug them up. “Did you know that he has a little sister?”

 

There’s silence on Veronica’s end for a moment and then she says, “Oh. I guess I never told you that. Yeah.” She gives a slight sigh and adds, “She’s not just his sister, either. Like, he raised her. His home life seems super fucked up, but I’ve met her a few times at Christmas and stuff and she’s fun.”

 

Betty smiles at that assessment. “Yeah, I really liked her, I just was totally caught off guard.” She flops onto her bed in her jeans and bra, grabbing the phone to speak more directly into it. “Am I crazy if I think it’s really sweet?”

 

“No, it definitely is. By the way, I feel like shit this morning. Remind me never to start that early again.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Betty agrees. “I need to grab a nap, for real.” She yawns, her tiredness top of mind, and snuggles into her blankets. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, probably?”

 

“Definitely, I have weird hungover-brunch with Archie’s mom right away so I’ll have lots to report. Love you B.”

 

“You too, V.” Betty hangs up and plugs her dying phone into the charger beside her bed, then crawls underneath her comforter, jeans and all. For what seems like the millionth time, she reflects on her unexpected day so far, which prompts her to grab her cell again to send a quick text to Jughead.

 

**_Thanks again for taking care of me last night. Next time I’ll braid YOUR hair :)_ **

 

The reply comes just as she’s teetering on the edge of falling asleep.  **_You’ll leave this perfection alone,_ ** he’s typed; followed by,  **_and you’re welcome._ ** It makes her smile, then she closes her eyes and drifts into unconsciousness. 

 

\--

 

Betty has seen the sun set on the docks in Red Hook many times over the last couple of weeks, but this time is different. Firstly, typically the dying light is a sign for her to get going; despite what Veronica and everyone seems to think, she really doesn’t have a death wish. She’s not in the business of waiting around with sketchy people in the darkness - just the daytime, although she recognizes that yes, that’s probably also unsafe. Still, because the sun setting is generally her impetus to leave, it’s weird to be sticking around.

 

The second reason this is different - and related to the reason she’s not leaving this time - is because Jughead is with her. He’s standing to her right, both of them leaning up against a container that’s a couple of rows down from (but still in plain view of) one of the Amur Inc. units that they’ve chosen to monitor. They'd banged on the side and received no response (Betty's not sure what she's supposed to be hoping for here anyway), then decided to see what would happen. Nobody untoward has shown up yet, but the night is still young.

 

It’s quiet between them, but instead of being awkward, Betty feels weirdly okay about it. Jughead’s wearing a denim jacket over another one of his flannels, the beanie now securely back on his head. One of his knees is bent, foot flat against the side of the container, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. His head is propped back and his eyes are closed, so Betty feels like it’s fairly safe to quickly glance at him. He’s been standing pretty close to her ever since they got here, like he assumes something terrible is going to happen to her. And okay, even though Betty can take care of her damn self, he’s so warm and he kind of smells good and she’s having a hard time telling him to take a step back.

 

_ Focus, Cooper,  _ she thinks, tearing her eyes from his perfect facial structure and checking out the target container again. Still nobody; she sighs and looks to her left, where a sliver of water is visible between the multicoloured containers. It’s not like being at the beach - it’s not even like being at a pretty marina for personal watercraft - but even without the romantic ocean vibe, Betty still feels an odd mix of calm and eager. The rows of jumbled containers provides an uneasy aura, standing like giant Lego blocks, childlike and potentially horrific all at once. What are they hiding? What is the truth?

 

But to be honest, she  _ is  _ excited. Betty’s always loved mysteries; as a child, she was obsessed with Nancy Drew, and when she started doing her journalism degree she’d often imagined herself as Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein, breaking major stories and changing the course of history. This may be a far cry from Watergate - and who knows, it could all be a wild goose chase - but this is still what she’s dreamed of, in a way. There’s a thrill she hasn’t felt before, and despite her ovaries’ newfound affection for Jughead, it actually has nothing to do with him being beside her.

 

(Not most of it, anyway.)

 

All of a sudden, there’s movement. Two men, both in black jackets, approach their target. Betty nudges Jughead, who glances at her momentarily before snapping his gaze to the container. He stands straight and signals to her to take a photo on her phone; Betty nods and complies, ensuring the flash is off. They can’t see their faces, though, which Betty knows is the important part.

 

Jughead seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he also slips his phone out of his pocket. He jerks his head toward them, signalling that he’s going to try to get closer. He turns down a row that borders the water, Betty close behind, and they quietly tiptoe up to the next intersection of containers. They’re still a length away, but Betty snaps a couple more photos, this one with the side of the shorter man’s face slightly visible. Jughead half-motions for them to move even further up, but even as he does so his face wears an apprehensive expression.

 

Just as Betty’s trying to decide if that’s a good idea, the men’s footsteps grow louder. Her instinct is to run back, but there’s no coverage if they’re coming along the waterfront, so Betty shoves her in her pocket quickly and grabs Jughead’s left arm. She wraps it around her waist, makes incredibly brief, hurried eye contact with him, and slides a hand onto his chest. 

 

Luckily, Jughead has a similar look of panic on his face and catches on quickly. He lifts a hand to cover hers just as the two men come around the corner. They immediately halt when they see Jughead and Betty wrapped up together by the water, but Betty giggles as if he’s said something funny, bites her lip flirtatiously, and pretends she hasn’t seen them.

 

“Hey!” 

 

Betty turns slowly in Jughead’s arms, as though she couldn’t possibly imagine why someone would be speaking to them, and smiles innocently. “Hi?”

 

“You can’t be here,” the tall man says. “Off-limits.”

 

“Oh no!” Betty gasps and looks up at Jughead. “Sorry! We were just taking a walk. Sunset, see?” She points out at the water, where the final strands of the dying sun are slipping behind the faint skyline of New Jersey. “Isn’t it romantic?” she adds, squeezing Jughead’s hand and giving him a loving look.

 

“That’s right, babe,” he replies, tightening his arm around her waist.

 

The shorter man takes a step toward them. Betty looks at his face, trying to memorize any and all details - brown eyes, short cropped brown hair, boxy nose, thin lips. He gives Betty a blatant once-over, making her skin crawl a little. “Why don’t you two lovebirds run along,” he advises in a careful, measured tone. “Go find somewhere else to play grab-ass instead of on the docks.”

 

“We’re leaving, don’t worry,” Jughead says, tucking her even closer to his side. “Sorry, man.” He walks quickly away along the metallic line of orange and blue and red, nearly dragging Betty when she can’t keep up with his strides.

 

Jughead only lets her go once they’re five rows down and three over. Betty leans against the side of an orange container, breathing heavily with relief, and looks up at him. He’s red-faced, but it’s not from exertion and she’s pretty sure it’s only partially out of anger. She tilts her head slightly, trying to figure it out, and when he flicks his gaze to her and then back Betty sees something in his eyes: embarrassment. She wonders if it has anything to do with her hands all over him and decides not to mention it.

 

Instead, she comments, “Well,  _ they  _ were friendly.”

 

Jughead shakes his head wordlessly. He takes his beanie off and runs a hand through his hair, then shoves the hat back on somewhat forcefully. “That kind of guy is the reason I didn’t want you to come out here alone.”

 

Betty doesn’t acknowledge the dark implication in his concern, choosing instead to say, “I got a picture of the side of one of their faces. Next time we come back, if it’s the same guys - we’ll be able to establish a pattern, anyway. We should go back and see what they’re doing.”

 

Jughead presses his lips together and exhales through his nose. “Not yet. We have to wait until it gets dark. I’m not risking them seeing us again.” He looks at her, and Betty can see in his eyes that he’s not budging on it.

 

“Okay,” Betty finally agrees. She puts her hands in the pockets of her dark blue jacket and slides down the side of the container until she’s crouching on her heels on the concrete. Jughead joins her, feet flat on the ground and knees bent, and they sit in silence for another twenty minutes.

 

By then, darkness has fallen, but when Betty gets up to move back toward their container, Jughead stops her. “Five more minutes,” he says. 

 

“Come  _ on,  _ Juggie,” Betty says teasingly, the nickname slipping out easily. “Are you scared?”

 

“Yes, obviously,” he says, turning to her and making a  _ duh  _ face. “I'm a rational individual. Just five more - wait, shh.” He pauses. “Do you hear that?” Jughead holds a hand up and frowns, craning his neck to listen intently. 

 

Betty stares hard at the container across from her, straining her ears. At first she hears nothing, but then, faintly - footsteps. Her eyes widen, and before she can even think of what to do, Jughead reacts in a whirl of movement. She's still sitting on the ground, but now he’s pressing her shoulder painfully into the container that they were just leaning against. He's between her and anybody that might pass by, her head pulled securely into his chest. Her face is pushed into his jacket, and she can't breathe that well. 

 

“Jug-”

 

_ “Shh.”  _ His hand comes to rest on her shoulder, but he adjusts them slightly so her nose finds fresh air. Now that she can breathe, Betty focuses on not moving. They stay hidden in the dark shadows of the shipping containers, tangled silently, until the footsteps pass by and then fall away gradually. 

 

Finally, the only sounds that fill Betty's ears are the faint noises of the city. Jughead relaxes his grip and stands up, pulling her to her feet beside him. 

 

“This is when dressing in all dark colours comes in handy,” he comments casually, glancing down toward their targeted container. 

 

“Hey, I'm wearing dark colours,” Betty protests, looking down at her jeans and dark jacket. 

 

Jughead looks back at her with a raised eyebrow. “Uh, the beacon of blonde hair?”

 

“Well, what am I supposed to do about  _ that?” _

 

Jughead smirks. “Beanies are very in style.”

 

Betty rolls her eyes. “That was not convincing at all. You'd be a terrible cult leader. Let's go back to that container and see if there are any clues as to who they are.”

 

They walk slowly back through the rows, taking great caution, and see no one. The lock on their targeted container looks like it has moved slightly, but Betty can't be sure. Even though she has the photo of the two men, as they begin to leave the docks she's a little annoyed that they didn't come up with anything more concrete. 

 

“It's one night,” Jughead assures her. “Plus, that picture isn't nothing. We’ll come back tomorrow night and see if the same guys are around.”

 

“We have wedding drinks tomorrow,” Betty reminds him absentmindedly, matching his steps as they leave the dock area. 

 

Jughead groans. “Ugh. I hate those. Fine, Monday then.” He steps off of the sidewalk and peers down the road - looking for a cab, Betty realizes. 

 

“Only ten more months of them left,” she smiles. 

 

“Hmm?” He turns his head toward her. “Oh. Yeah. I mean…they're less bad than before.” He blushes slightly and his lower lip disappears. A moment later it slowly returns from between his teeth, slightly redder than before. He looks away quickly and raises a hand out to hail a cab.

 

Betty is briefly enraptured, then shakes herself out of it. “Monday,” she agrees. A yellow cab pulls up in front of them and she steps forward to get in. 

 

He piles in after her, one hand on her back for leverage. Once they're in the cab, it falls onto the middle seat between them. Betty looks at it for a moment and is overwhelmed with the urge to lace her fingers through his. She wants to say thank you, because he was right - she can’t imagine being out there alone - but the words seem inadequate and perhaps the physical gesture will express it better. But she doesn’t. Instead she just inhales sharply and turns to stare out the window, her mind preoccupied with a million different thoughts. The containers, the two men, half a face, the  _ people  _ that could be at risk - and then him and his smirk, somewhere just under the surface.

 

They arrive at his place first. Jughead tries to give her some cash for his share of the cab, but Betty refuses. She’s sure that he makes decent money working construction, but she also has a feeling that every extra cent is spent on Jellybean and not himself. The last thing she's going to do is take ten bucks from him when she can easily handle it. 

 

“I'll buy you a drink tomorrow, then,” he promises, clearly put off by her refusal. Betty imagines the reaction Veronica will have, shocked at the  _ implication  _ of it all, and as she nods her agreement she finds herself smiling at the idea.

 

\--

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me a comment :) Thanks to all who have reviewed.


	5. five

_I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,_

_He_ _said to me, "You must not ask for so much."_

_And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,_

_She cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"_

  * Leonard Cohen, “Bird on the Wire”



  
  


“Absolutely not, Veronica. No. I'm putting my foot down.” Jughead flops down onto his sofa with great intent, arms folded. He raises an eyebrow at the raven-haired girl that stands in front of him and shakes his head. _“No.”_

 

Veronica sighs heavily and turns toward Archie, dramatically lifting her hands and pressing her palms together. “Please, talk some sense into him. I need him to do this.”

 

Jughead turns to stare at his best friend. To his credit, Archie _does_ look uncertain and apologetic, but apparently not enough to prevent this from happening. He and Veronica had showed up at Jughead’s apartment twenty minutes earlier, plied him with fresh baked cookies, and then betrayed him by asking him to do the unthinkable: Veronica wants him to go _dress shopping._

 

“She wants a man’s opinion on the dresses,” Archie tells him, clearly defeated.

 

“You’re a man,” Jughead points out. “You go.”

 

Veronica shakes her head. “No, because I need them to complement _my_ dress, and Archiekins can’t find out what my dress looks like.”

 

Jughead stares at her disdainfully. “That’s a stupid tradition,” he informs her.

 

“I’m sorry, have you met me?” Veronica asks crossly, folding her arms. “Come _on,_ please? Moose is out of town and Reggie--”

 

“Reggie!” Jughead exclaims. “Reggie would love nothing more than to look at girls in dresses all day.”

 

Veronica shoots an apologetic look at Archie before answering, “Yeah, uh, Reggie’s a little too enthusiastic for me to bring along on something like this. You’re perfect.” She ticks off qualities on her fingers as she lists them. “You’re a guy, you’re into girls, and unlike certain other groomsmen, you’re evolved enough to be restrained when my hot friends are parading around in front of you.”

 

 _Into girls._ In a last effort to get out of this, Jughead locks onto that phrase - it’s accurate, but he’s never brought a girl around Veronica before so it’s not like she’d know that for sure. “How dare you assume my sexuality,” he accuses, glancing at Archie as if daring him to speak up.

 

Veronica scoffs, puts a hand on her hip, and gives him a look that clearly reads _fuck off._ “Please. I saw you staring at Betty’s ass last week when we went for drinks.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off with a look. “I don’t blame you, Betty has a great ass. I’m just saying. Either you’re really interested in the craftsmanship of pencil skirts, or you’re into girls.”

 

Jughead can feel his face flaming. He feels bad enough about having ogled his friend without now discovering that other people had witnessed it. It’s just - okay, he’s been spending a lot of time with Betty lately (mostly down at the docks, but also at coffee shops and in their apartments), he was tired, and she was being all bendy and enticing in front of him. “Veronica, I am not going to have any opinions on these dresses. It’s not going to help you,” he argues, but he can already feel his resolve weakening.

 

“Afterward we can go to Old Town on 18th and I will buy you as many wings as your bottomless pit of a stomach can hold,” Veronica promises. “Just a couple of hours. You’ll officially be my favourite member of the wedding party.”

 

Jughead opens his mouth again and then closes it. He gives an annoyed, gruff sigh and nods. “Fine. But you owe me.”

 

Veronica claps her hands, delighted. “Not to worry. Like the Lannisters, the Lodges always pay their debts. And we don’t fuck our siblings!” At that, Archie gives her a strange look, to which Veronica shrugs and grins. “Smithers will pick you up at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning!”

 

 _“Nine o’clock?”_ Jughead echoes. On his day off. His only day off in this entire week, after spending day after backbreaking day hauling rubble and transporting rebar, and he was going to be getting up for nine o’clock to go bridesmaid dress shopping with four women. Jesus fucking Christ.

 

Jellybean strolls into the living room wearing ripped jeans and heavy eyeliner and plops herself down next to Jughead on the couch. “I’ll set his alarm,” she promises Veronica, clearly having at least partially overheard. “Where’s he going?”

 

“Dress shopping for the bridesmaids,” Archie answers, the corner of his mouth quirking erratically. There’s a little bit too much mirth in his friend’s tone for his liking, and Jughead narrows his eyes.

 

Jellybean snorts. “Oh my _god._ Please take videos of the entire thing.” She lifts a hand to her mouth dramatically. “Incredible. Oh hey, is your girlfriend going to be there?”

 

“She’s _not_ my girlfriend, JB, how many times do I have to tell you?”

 

His sister raises a pierced eyebrow and picks at the chipped black polish on her nails. “Then why is she here all the time?”

 

Veronica holds a hand up. “Wait, wait. I assume we’re talking about Betty?”

 

“The blonde that’s too hot for Jughead,” Jellybean supplies with a cheeky grin, even though she knows damn well what Betty’s name is. Jughead shoots a death glare at Archie, his expression clearly saying _do something._

 

Veronica’s jaw drops, then it turns into a wide smile. “My girl. Yes. Hey, so JB, just how often _is_ she here?” she asks, even as Archie has finally come around to Jughead’s side and is beginning to pull Veronica toward the foyer.

 

Jughead turns his death stare on his sister next, then rises to follow his friends to the door. “Goodbye, Veronica,” he says pointedly, holding the door open and gesturing with his hand toward the hallway.

 

“Nine o’clock!” she chirps with a teasing smile on her way out. Jughead shakes his head at her and flips the bird to an also-grinning Archie, then shuts the door and leans his head against it.

 

_Fuck._

 

\--

 

Jughead had not expected bridal stores to be so … white.

 

It makes logical sense, he supposes, and if he’d ever spent any time at all thinking about it he wouldn’t be so surprised right now. But he hasn’t, because this is not a scenario he ever thought he would find himself in: sitting on an unnecessarily ornate sofa next to Veronica’s elegant and intimidating mother in an expensive dress salon in Manhattan.

 

Yet here he is anyway, ostensibly to provide his opinion on the various dresses, which in itself is kind of a stupid notion. He doesn’t know anything about bridesmaids dresses, doesn’t understand the terminology being thrown around and can’t comprehend why there are so many different kinds of waist styles. He’s totally useless. The only reason he’s here is because he happens to be a male whereas everybody else - literally everybody - in this store is a female, and Veronica apparently subscribes to some ridiculous notion that because he’s a male attracted to females, he’ll be able to identify which look best.

 

Unfortunately, the model for all of the dresses they’ve seen so far has been Betty, and Jughead thinks she looks good in all of them.

 

She’s in another one right now, a peach-coloured thing with a silky ribbon at the waist. It ends above her knees - kind of, anyway. Some kind of a sheer taffeta layer flows from her waist down to the floor, which he doesn’t understand. “Why wouldn’t they just have it end where the rest of it ends?” Jughead asks.

 

“It’s an illusion overskirt, very in style,” the attendant proclaims, giving Jughead a dirty look. This isn’t the first time he’s been shushed by the older woman, who he was pretty sure had taken one look at his jeans and beanie and instantly hated him. He’d been told that the neckline was going to be something called a “sweetheart”, which he doesn’t understand, and is also apparently not allowed to comment on the colour of the sample dresses because they’re all going to be a dark purple.

 

(It seems to Jughead that the neckline and the colour are really the important parts of these goddamn dresses, so _seriously,_ why are they still here?)

 

“I don’t know how I feel about the skirt,” Veronica sighs to his right, laying her perfectly manicured hands on her lap. “Mother, what do you think?”

 

“Charming,” Hermione Lodge says, “but there’s something about the fabric that doesn’t sit right. Does the belt come in a different fabric than silk?”

 

The attendant nods. “Yes, one moment, ma’am,” she says, flitting to the side. She disappears into a side door - pure white, of course - and returns with three other belts that all look the exact same to Jughead. She holds one up around Betty, who’s biting her lip in obvious discomfort.

 

It’s weird; when he’d first met Betty, he’d been struck by her obvious beauty. That, combined with her impeccable poise, had led him to assume that she was one of Veronica’s prep-school friends. She just seemed to _fit_ with the Upper East Side types that were otherwise flitting around Veronica at all times. Obviously, now that he knows her better, Jughead knows that Betty is in fact not one of those types, but is more of a jeans-and-sneakers sort of girl.

 

(He still appreciates the dresses and skirts, of course. There’s just something about her when she’s obviously more comfortable - her shoulders are less tensed, her eyes more relaxed. Her perpetual smile seems to come more easily, too, and it suits her.)

 

He makes eye contact with her and gives her a reassuring smile. She returns it and lets the attendant turn her to face Hermione. “How about this?” the woman asks.

 

“The dress isn’t red,” Cheryl comments from Veronica’s other side.

 

“This isn’t a Blossom wedding, Cheryl,” Veronica snaps. “For the fiftieth time.” She looks at Jughead. “You don’t like this one, right?”

 

“I just don’t get why you’d cover her legs,” Jughead says, and as soon as it comes out he realizes he’s used incorrect phrasing. What he means is that he doesn’t understand why there’s a sheer skirt - because seriously, if you’re going to make it floor-length, just make the whole thing that way - but obviously, this isn’t how Veronica takes it.

 

She grins wickedly. “I agree. My girls have great legs. Daphne, let's try some shorter ones, shall we?”

 

“As you wish, Miss Lodge.” The attendant leads the way back to the dressing room, Betty trailing behind. Jughead feels for her; at least he gets to sit here passing judgment. She's the one being paraded around for everyone to stare at, even if it is just Veronica and her posse.

 

Nancy crosses her legs on the other end of the couch. “I definitely think you need to go for something waist-defining,” she comments. “Yours is so fitted, it'll look weird next to three loose-shaped dresses.”

 

“Hmm, you're right,” Veronica muses. “I better go tell them to skip that drop-waisted dress.” She gets up and marches over the slightly elevated platform, through to the dressing rooms. Jughead sighs, wondering how much longer this is going to take, and fights the urge to check the time on his phone for the millionth time.

 

Veronica is only gone for a moment when Cheryl plops down in her seat. She smiles mischievously and turns to Jughead, who glances at her apprehensively from the corner of his eye. “Hello there, tall, dark and brooding. We haven't had the chance to talk much.”

 

Jughead raises an eyebrow at the ground. She _has_ to know that his silence around her is intentional. “Point being?”

 

“Just a simple observation. You know, I've never met anyone who can rock plaid like you can, but I like this new look today, Jughead.” Cheryl puts a hand on his arm, long red talons curling into the fabric.

 

He looks down at himself. Same old jeans, same old hat, new blue button-down shirt, courtesy of Jellybean last Christmas. She'd made him wear it today, insisting that there was no way he was going to go dress shopping in the same shirt he'd been wearing for two days already _(what,_ it’s just the top layer, and it smells fine). “Thanks,” he says dully, trying to discourage her from continuing this conversation.

 

“Oh, I haven't heard all about your latest!” Cheryl exclaims, moving her hand from his forearm to his bicep. “Veronica tells me that you and Betty are working on some mysterious case. Very Nancy Drew, that girl is. Really adorable.”

 

Jughead frowns. Somehow, that doesn't feel like it was intended as a compliment to Betty. He's not sure what kind of game Cheryl is playing, but he wants no part of it. “We're working together on an article for her website,” he responds.

 

“Oh yes, I heard you were a writer.” Cheryl leans closer to him. She squeezes his bicep, and he almost jumps out of his chair. “I have family connections in the publishing world. If you ever wanted to meet someone … let me know. I'm sure I could arrange something.” She winks at him, and that's when he realizes. She's flirting. With _him._

 

Jughead feels his face burn red as he tries to think of what to say. He doesn't think he's ever been hit on before; if he has, he certainly hasn't noticed. For better or for worse, women have always seemed to skip over him, their made-up eyes shifting from one bright, shiny Archie type to the next, so he has limited experience to draw on - especially against a demon like _Cheryl._ “Uh,” he begins, somewhat less than eloquently, “I...”

 

Luckily, he's rescued by the return of Veronica. “Cheryl, put your ovaries back inside your body,” she says in a bored tone as she strides up purposefully with the attendant trailing behind her. “We've all noticed the blue shirt. Can you contain yourself for long enough to check out this next dress? I think it might be the one.”

 

Cheryl scowls but nods. “Fine,” she says, getting up. As she passes by on the way back to her seat, she winks at Jughead. He is officially totally confused and honestly, a little scared. What was wrong with his shirt?

 

“Betty!” Veronica summons.

 

Betty appears as demanded, wearing a strapless dress with a fitted bodice and a sweetheart neckline. From the waist, it flows out in soft layers (of some material he doesn’t know the name of, but it looks soft and lightweight), ending at the middle of Betty's thigh. She's beautiful, like always.

 

“Is Betty not a total smokeshow?” Veronica demands, glancing around at the assembled group. “Look at her legs.”

 

So he does, because apparently he can't deny Veronica anything. And yeah, they're great. Her legs look like they're a million miles long, aided by the unfamiliar silver heels on her feet. Toned calves lead to slender thighs that he'd love to see wrapped around--

 

“Amazing,” Cheryl comments, dangling an expensive black heel from her toes. “Not red, but - short, just how I like it.”

 

“I _love_ it,” Nancy gushes. “V, this is the one, for sure. Betty, your boobs look amazing too.”

 

 _(Can confirm,_ he thinks.)

 

Betty turns beet red and immediately stares at her hands, but that doesn't stop Veronica from grabbing her wrist and tugging her forward. “Right? All three of you are going to look so gorgeous in this. How hot are my friends?!” she asks the few attendants who have approached.

 

“Beautiful,” Daphne confirms with a smile.

 

Jughead's pretty sure she's paid to say that no matter what, but this time he agrees. Betty looks good in everything, and the dress is no exception. To Veronica, he comments, “I like it too,” and makes careful eye contact with Betty. He gives her a little smile, which she returns with unexpected shyness.

 

Veronica beams at his approval. “Mother?” she asks, turning to the older woman.

 

Hermione smiles politely. “It's perfect, Ronnie.”

 

Veronica beams excitedly. “Okay, Nancy, Cheryl - I want you to try it on just to be sure, but I'm pretty sure this is the one!”

 

“Does that mean I'm done modeling?” Betty asks hopefully, tugging at the hem.

 

“Yes,” Veronica says with a grateful smile. “Thank you. Daphne will bring the dress to Cheryl once you've changed.”

 

“Thank God,” Betty breathes, hurrying off with Cheryl close behind. She seems to disrobe in record time, because only a minute later she walks back wearing her dark jeans and a deep green sweater, a look of relief on her face.

 

She sits down next to Jughead, who looks over and smiles at her. “Hey Betts,” he greets. “Or should I call you Kate Moss?”

 

“Shut up.” Betty shakes her head, smiling, then quietly asks, “How's it going?”

 

Jughead shrugs. “This is my own personal hell,” he reports cheerfully. “I'm going to eat so many wings in retaliation for this that Veronica is going to go bankrupt.”

 

Betty giggles. “You've been a very good sport,” she says, patting his arm.

 

“I just hope this is over soon.” He shakes his head and looks down at his hands, which are wrung together with boredom. “Hey,” he whispers. “Veronica said something about my shirt. Do I have a giant stain on the back or something?”

 

To his surprise, Betty looks away almost immediately. The tips of her ears twinge pink, and she answers, “No, no stain.” Her hands curl slowly into loose fists, then suddenly uncurl. “The shirt just looks really - the colour’s nice and it fits you well, and - uh - a couple of the girls had noticed. That’s all.”

 

Jughead tilts his head, curious at her reaction, then smiles slowly. “Were you one of them?” he teases.

 

Betty stares straight ahead as Cheryl emerges in the dress, clearly refusing to look at Jughead. “Maybe,” she replies, a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

 

He raises his eyebrows but chooses not to push the subject. He bites back his own smile and turns his attention back to Cheryl on the dress platform. Veronica is looking around expectantly, so he gives her a thumbs-up. Apparently satisfied, Cheryl is shooed away along with Nancy, and once Nancy is also approved of it seems to be time to leave.

 

_Finally._

 

“I am never going to get these hours of my life back, Veronica,” Jughead informs her as the three bridesmaids are assessed for the appropriate sizes. The seamstress, a brusque older woman with a thick Russian accent, is being decidedly less-than-gentle as she lifts and tugs the girls’ limbs into various positions for measurements. He watches Betty and smiles at the adorably nervous look on her face.

 

Veronica follows his line of sight and rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah,” she replies sarcastically, jutting an elbow into his side. “You’re really a martyr.”

 

\--

 

Afterward, Cheryl, Nancy, and Veronica’s mother pass on the invitation for wings, so Veronica has Archie meet her, Jughead and Betty at Old Town in the Flatiron District. The bar itself is no great shakes - it’s a sort of hole-in-the-wall brick building with an old green awning and an even older dark wood interior - but it has the best wings in all of Manhattan. At least, Jughead thinks so, and that’s what matters - because this is _his_ time. He spent a total of six hours and twenty-two minutes with Veronica and her crew, which at a minimum wage of $15 per hour is about $95 pre-tax, so to break even he figures he needs to eat and drink at least $100 worth of wings and beer (with an extra five dollars factored in for pain and suffering).

 

“You lucky bastard,” Jughead says to Archie over a pound of honey garlic wings, “you get to come eat _and_ you didn’t have to sit through all that shopping.”

 

“Your complaining is getting old, Jughead,” Veronica says pointedly. He shrugs at her.

 

Betty smiles at both of them. “Okay, okay. It was a long day for everyone, but it's over now. And we get to eat wings! So it's all good.”

 

Always the peacemaker, he thinks, grabbing another chicken wing. He zones out a little while Veronica gives Archie a rundown of their day, finishes his wings, and starts on the second basket that is placed in front of him. He's nearly halfway through it when he realizes Betty is watching him.

 

Jughead swallows the bite in his mouth before looking over. “Yes?”

 

Betty bites the corner of her mouth thoughtfully. “I just - how can you _eat_ like that?”

 

“Jughead is a miracle of modern medicine,” Archie informs her, eating a salt and pepper wing.

 

Betty raises her eyebrows, suppressing a laugh. Jughead winks at her exaggeratedly and bites into another chicken wing. He washes it down with the last dredges of his craft stout and signals to the bartender.

 

A server walks over to their table with a confident smile, and Jughead doesn't like him from the start. His teeth are too white, long hair pulled back into an absurd man-bun, ears pierced with some kind of miniature faux-ivory tusks. Ugh. _Hipsters._

 

“What can I get you?” he asks.

 

“Two more baskets, one creamy Greek and one sriracha, and another stout on her, please,” Jughead requests, pointing at Veronica.

 

The server nods. “You got it. What about you two?” he asks Veronica and Archie.

 

Veronica snuggles into Archie's arm. “I'll have another glass of the red, and he'll have another IPA. Thanks.”

 

“And a pound of the honey garlic,” Archie adds, shrugging at Veronica. “What, Jug’s making them look really good.”

 

Jughead grins and nods his head at Archie. “Good choice.”

 

“And what about you, sweetheart?” the server asks Betty. He's smiling a little too much, in Jughead's opinion, but Betty is cordial as always.

 

“Gin and tonic, please,” she says in her quiet voice.

 

“Gin fan, huh?” he says casually, leaning against the tall wooden side of the booth. “Would’ve pegged you for a vodka girl.”

 

“Oh?” Betty asks, smiling politely. “Well, nope. Gin. Sometimes scotch.”

 

“A girl after my own heart.” He raises a hand to his chest. “Beautiful _and_ good taste in liquor.”

 

Betty's face flushes pink and she looks down, obviously uncomfortable. Jughead is beyond annoyed suddenly. He's taking way too long to get his wings to him. He did not spend six and a half hours dress shopping to have the delivery of his food further delayed by a dude like _this._

 

So Jughead clears his throat and puts an arm along the back of the booth behind Betty. “Hey man, can you bring water too? Thanks,” he says, decidedly less politely than before. He turns straight to Betty, ignoring the waiter’s look of irritation, and smiles. “Want to go back to the docks after dinner?”

 

Betty smiles, casting her eyes quickly down to her lap and then back up at him. “Yeah,” she answers, shifting ever so slightly toward him on the seat. “Sounds good.”

  


Once Jughead has successfully eaten Veronica out of house and home (or at least $100 worth), he and Betty bid farewell to Archie and Veronica and begin the annoyingly long trek across to Brooklyn and down to the docks in Red Hook.

 

They compare metaphorical notes on the way. The last time they'd been, they'd seen the two men again - this being the fourth sighting now - and had finally gotten a clear photo of both of their faces. Betty was trying to get a hold of some sort of facial recognition software, but so far had come up empty.

 

“Did you try reverse searching on Google Images?”

 

Betty turns to him in her adjacent seat on the train. “Yes, obviously. First thing I did.”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Jughead chuckles, raising his hands in defense. “Had to double check. Well, after I can try to see if I have better luck getting some of the software. If you want.”

 

“That'd be great,” Betty says, her eyes fluttering shut. She lets out an unexpected yawn and then quickly raises her hand to her mouth. “Oh God, excuse me!”

 

Jughead looks down at her. “If you're tired, we can skip this and go tomorrow. It's just one day.”

 

Betty shakes her head. “No. I want to go.” She gives him a reassuring smile. “Putting a different dress on every five minutes is a little tiring, that's all.”

 

He sighs. A woman brushes past them on the way to the doors, and Betty leans into him to get out of the way. The protective side of Jughead is vaguely unhappy that she's not taking him up on the offer to delay this little excursion - it seems like she's always intentionally disagreeing with him, plus she could obviously use the sleep - but then the woman is gone and Betty stays leaned against his shoulder anyway, and suddenly he doesn't mind as much.

  
\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is ending up a lot more UST-y than I anticipated, so I've adjusted the tags to reflect that. 
> 
> Thanks all for your lovely comments! They cleanse my soul and feed my stomach. Please leave more.


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the wonderful comments! I'm glad you're all enjoying.

_Well the music plays and you display your heart for me to see,_   
_I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me,  
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you… _

  * Tom Waits



 

 

Betty drums her fingers on her knee impatiently and glares up at the route map along the top of the subway car, sandwiched between advertisements for Continental Airlines and McDonald’s. They’ve already been on the train for half an hour and are still eight stops from her apartment. She looks to her left, where Jughead is sitting beside her, his head back and his eyes closed. She shakes her head a little at him, envious of his ability to sleep literally anywhere.

 

Sometimes, they Uber back from Red Hook, depending upon how late it is; today, they’ve decided to take the train. It’s the beginning of December in New York, so darkness comes a bit earlier now than it had just a few weeks prior. Snow has finally fallen as well, so Betty's hands are stuffed into navy blue gloves and her hair is tucked neatly into a matching beanie. A few curly strands escape at the front, and Betty twists her finger around them as she closes her eyes, willing the train to go faster.

 

Things at the dock have been progressing, albeit a bit slowly for her taste. They have painstakingly documented the sightings of all of the men they've seen hanging around a variety of containers over the course of six weeks, but they have yet to identify any of them. As it's gotten colder, standing around the docks has gotten less enjoyable too, and Betty has been questioning whether they are in, fact, on a wild goose chase.

 

Until today.

 

Because today, they'd been skipping around the containers, trying to spot any visitors, when Jughead had suddenly stopped in his tracks. He bent over and had picked up a business card for Paperbark Ltd., one of the import companies whose shipments they've targeted. Betty doesn't recognize the address on the card, and from her recollection it doesn't match any of those listed in public records. She has the copies of those at her apartment, so they'd left the docks somewhat early, eager to get back and confirm the potential new lead.

 

Betty opens her eyes again. They've made it one stop. Still seven left. She sighs audibly and looks down at Jughead's lap, where one of his hands casually rests on his leg. His hands are the newest thing that she's focused on recently, having already spent a few days obsessed with the arrangement of the three moles on his neck and a full week getting over the sight of his hair without a beanie. Betty figures that at this rate, by the end of December she’ll have progressed through enough of his secondary features that she’ll be able to fully move on from the weird crush she has on him.

 

(She also recognizes the possibility that she just gets stuck on his hands, because there are _implications_ with his hands. They can do things for her - _to_ her - and the thought of _that_ is sometimes a little too enticing to ignore.)

 

Compared to when she first met him, Jughead has been a lot nicer lately too, which hasn’t really helped her crush. It started around the time of her discovery of Jellybean’s existence and had only increased as they began to spend a lot of time together at the docks. He’s protective by nature; that much is obvious to Betty just by watching how he interacts with his sister, but also by the way that he treats her at the docks. Betty never feels as though he’s trying to be dominant - if anything, he lets her take the lead - but he’s always close by, carefully monitoring around them, and more than once they’ve narrowly escaped being caught because of his watchful eye. On the surface, Betty’s not so sure he’d be that useful in an actual altercation, but then she remembers about his dad and realizes that this would probably not be the first time he’s come up against dangerous people. He was _raised_ by them, at least in some manner of speaking.

 

Jughead is also funny, which she hadn’t anticipated at all. Sometimes when they’re on the train or out for drinks, he’ll keep a running commentary on some of the more interesting people that they see. He’s the king of flippant, offhand comments, and God help her, she’s even started to warm to his sarcasm.

 

“This is taking so long,” she comments a few stops later, breaking the twenty-minute silence between them. Her knee bounces anxiously.

 

His eyes open and he glances down at her. “Eager much?” Jughead asks, nodding his head toward her leg.

 

Betty elbows him. “Hush. I’m just excited to get to my files. This is the first big lead!”

 

Jughead smiles at her. “I know, I’m just teasing.” His eyes flick up to the map. “Three more.”

 

Betty groans exaggeratedly and fidgets with her gloves. She locks her fingers together and begins to twiddle her thumbs somewhat obnoxiously, staring at Jughead with a stepford smile as she does so. “Make it go faster,” she demands.

 

Jughead raises an eyebrow, reaches out and separates her hands. “You’re being weird,” he informs her.

 

She sighs. “I know, I just _really--”_

 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m into it,” he interrupts with a half-grin. “But I’m just gonna need you to tell me if this is you being tired and over-eager or if you’ve really gone off the deep end.”

 

“The first one,” Betty promises. “I’ll give you a heads up if I’m going to go crazy.”

 

Jughead chuckles. “Okay,” he says, and it’s not until the train arrives at her stop a few minutes later that Betty realizes he is still holding her hands.

 

He drops them to stand, but as they exit onto the platform and begin to climb the steps, his hand moves to the small of her back. Betty bites back a smile but leans a little closer than usual to him as they step into the lightly falling snow and walk the short distance from the subway station to Betty's apartment.

 

The vibrant colours and lights of Chinatown are always enchanting. With the exception of lunar new year celebrations, it's never as dynamic as it is around Christmastime. The white backdrop sets the colours off, and the delicious smells waft from the many hole-in-the-wall restaurants that pepper her block. (Betty is now _persona non grata_ at many of them, but after going through hundreds of Department of Health reports, she's not sure she'd want to eat there anyway.)

 

Betty opens a door to a tight hallway at the side of one of the establishments and leads Jughead up the four flights to her apartment. He's been here many times before, but it's still kind of odd for her to have a man in her apartment - even if it's Jughead. Strictly speaking, she doesn't usually bring men back to her place. She doesn't usually go home with men either; really, her life now is pretty devoid of men. Except him.

 

He flops down on her couch as soon as he's kicked his shoes off. “It kinda looks like a mad scientist lives here,” he comments.

 

Betty raises her eyebrow and smiles, sitting down beside him. She grabs her laptop. “I've been a little preoccupied with the financial statements of the four shell companies. Now shush and let me check out the addresses.”

 

“Okay,” Jughead says in a sing-song voice. He’s quiet as she pulls up her files, but when Betty begins cross-referencing addresses he shifts around noisily, pushing pillows behind himself, and drops his feet in her lap.

 

She turns her head toward him slowly with an expectant look on her face. “Can I help you?”

 

“Nope,” he says cheerfully. Betty just shakes her head, chuckling quietly, and continues checking the addresses. As she scrolls through the last few, she grabs his left foot with her free hand. He wiggles his toes against her palm and she giggles.

 

“Jughead, you are the most ridicul - holy shit, I was right. None match.” Betty whips her head over to look at him. “Do you know what this means?”

 

He sits up, not moving his feet. His face wears a combination of shock and concern, but there's a sparkle of excitement in his blue eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I guess we have a new location to check out. Queens, huh?”

 

Betty nods, smiling slowly, then lets it break into a full grin. “I'm so happy! Finally. All those nights at the dock were worth it.” She shuts her laptop and pushes her files to the corner of the table. “This calls for celebration.”

 

Jughead pulls his feet from her lap. “How so?”

 

Betty stands up and goes over to her tiny kitchen. She opens a cupboard and pulls out a bottle of red wine. “Malbec?” she proposes.

 

He looks apprehensive for a brief moment, then nods. “What the hell, it's Friday. Besides, I'm betting I'm going to have to drink a lot of red wine at Veronica's fancy Christmas thing tomorrow, right? I better get accustomed to it.”

 

“You've never had red wine?” Betty asks, grabbing two glasses and skipping back over to the couch.

 

Jughead shrugs. “Here and there, but honestly, I didn't drink at all until Jellybean turned 18. Figured she had enough parents who did that for one lifetime. And even now I am pretty slow about it.”

 

Betty bites her lip. _You idiot,_ she thinks to herself. And - God, he definitely thinks she's a total loser, probably has ever since he had to take care of her drunk ass a couple months prior. Maybe she's made up for it since then with her relative sobriety otherwise, but she probably fucked up with _that_ impression. “I'm sorry. We don't have to--”

 

“Pour me the wine, Cooper.” He's smiling. “It's not like I don't drink. That's not what I meant. I didn't say that to make it weird. I just have some catching up to do options-wise. I'm not about to become a regular at a bar anytime soon - let's be real, there are too many chatty people for that anyway - but I do drink. You've seen me drink beer!”

 

She has, that's right. “Yeah.” Betty exhales. “Sorry. Ignore me. I just had a moment where I thought maybe I'd offended you and I didn't stop to even think about it.” She opens the bottle of wine but doesn't pour it yet, choosing instead to sit and stare at it for a moment.

 

“You didn't,” Jughead assures her, and to her surprise he reaches over and grabs one of her hands. “Not everyone who drinks will turn out like my dad. I know that. But I ever get weird about it just kick my ass and tell me to get over myself.” He squeezes their clasped hands. “I mostly bottle up my issues anyway,” he jokes.

 

His thumb rubs against the back of hers. Betty watches it move slowly. She gets it; for years, her mother encouraged her to do the same. Coopers don't show their weaknesses, after all, but Betty has always felt a natural inclination for expression. Tears, rage, affection - it doesn't matter. She feels it all and coats herself with it, walking around with it just underneath a thin veil of a smile, the remnants of Alice and Hal’s expectations. It's the struggle between the two that leads her to dig her nails into herself, usually on her palms, although she hasn't done that in awhile.

 

The scars still remain, though, and it's these slight ridges that Jughead sees when he turns her hand over.

 

“What's this?” he asks softly, his voice booming in her too-quiet apartment.

 

Betty swallows, nervous about his reaction. “That's me bottling up _my_ issues,” she explains.

 

He's quiet for a moment, then covers her palm with his. “I know I'm not probably your top pick, but for what it's worth - if you ever want to talk something through instead, I'll always answer your call, Betty.”

 

The faint prickle of teary heat springs behind her eyes. Betty draws her lower lip into her mouth briefly, then shifts closer to him until there's no space between them and drops her head onto Jughead's shoulder. “We're supposed to be celebrating,” she finally says, a hint of teasing in her voice.

 

She feels the press of his lips in her hair and smiles immediately, the warmth moving from her eyes to her chest. “Then let's celebrate,” Jughead says, sitting forward to pour the glasses of wine. He hands her glass and holds his own in a slightly elevated position. “To new leads.”

 

Betty meets his eyes, locking on intently. “To new leads,” she agrees, then tilts the glass back and lets the dry red coat her throat.

 

They finish the bottle with ease and start on another not long afterward, this one a crisp white from her fridge. Betty has made the terrible suggestion that they watch a movie, but by the time they're a third of the way through the second bottle, they still haven't chosen one. He has so many _opinions._ Every time a new category opens on Netflix she gets an unsolicited assessment of the selections she's already viewed, which - he could shut the hell up. It was called a _guilty pleasure_ for a reason.

 

Eventually, they finally agree on _The Maltese Falcon._ Betty gets up to make popcorn, and when she returns he's spread out on the couch looking impossibly comfortable, all long limbs and soft sweater.

 

“Where do you want me to sit?” she asks, standing above him.

 

Jughead shrugs and holds an arm out for her. “Just - come here,” he implores, waving her closer. When he is able to reach, he grasps one of her hands and tugs with surprising force.

 

Betty tumbles forward, having been caught off guard, and giggles as he catches her around the waist and pulls her to lay with him on the couch. He keeps an arm draped around her, her legs piled onto his, and when she wiggles back to make more room for herself on the couch, his hand grabs her hip and finds purchase there. Betty relaxes back into him; this is unexpected, but feels nice. Kind of like him. “Jughead, are you a _cuddler?”_

 

His fingers press on her hip slightly beneath the hem of her sweater, and her skin burns. “No,” he says simply.

 

They watch in relative silence. Every now and then Betty reaches forward and brings the popcorn bowl close; Jughead grabs a handful, wolfs it down, then holds it for Betty. The whole arrangement is wordlessly orchestrated purely so that he doesn't have to move his left arm from around her, which Betty fully supports. His hand (the hands she's been so fixated on) is warm and has a gentle touch, despite the roughness of his palm and fingers  from years of construction.

 

Betty's not sure if it's the wine emboldening him, but about half an hour into the movie his hand snakes beneath her shirt and his palm settles flat against her abdomen. “Is this okay?” he asks in a gentle whisper, his lips almost touching her ear.

 

She nods. Being unable to squeeze his hand but feeling an overwhelming urge to return his affection, Betty hooks one of her feet around his ankle. His thumb strokes the bottom of her ribcage in response, and particularly because she knows he can't see it and tease her, Betty lets a stupid smile spread across her face.

 

She drifts off at some point, and when she wakes up next she feels vaguely airborne. “S’happening?” Betty asks in a haze of slumber and confusion, wiggling around to sit up and finding herself unable to.

 

Her back hits something soft, and she realizes he's carrying her to bed. “It's time for sleep.”

 

“Mm.” Betty opens her eyes and sees Jughead standing over her. She stretches grandly to shake the stiffness from her limbs, wriggling around a little, and when she glances at him again she notes his eyes sweeping over her. “Like what you see?” she jokes sleepily, knowing she must look like a mess with her hair everywhere and her sweater riding up.

 

Jughead shoves his hands in his pockets, forearms flexing slightly, and to her surprise his eyes are suddenly darker. He swallows. “Yeah.”

 

Betty rolls onto her back and sits up on her elbows. He's lost his beanie somewhere on her couch and his hair is a sea of dark waves across his eyes. She bites her lip. “You can stay,” she breathes, shifting over on the bed. “It's late.”

 

He hesitates. “Jellybean-”

 

“-is an adult,” Betty finishes. She smiles at him and pulls the covers back. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

 

Jughead laughs and scratches his neck. “Yeah, okay. Uh. My jeans are dirty from the docks. Do you mind if I sleep in my boxers?”

 

“Be my guest.” Betty looks down and realizes she's also still in jeans and her sweater; she figures that now that she's slightly more awake, she should probably change into something more comfortable for sleeping. “I'll change in the bathroom,” she tells him, sliding off the bed.

 

Betty grabs a pair of long pajama bottoms (reindeer patterned; _what,_ it's December now) and a t-shirt and slips into the only other room in her studio apartment. She changes quickly but gives him an extra minute anyway, and when she comes out Jughead is in bed, now wearing his boxers and white undershirt.

 

She bites the inside of her cheek nervously but smiles at him shyly as she walks up and slips in beside him. They lay beside each other, both facing the ceiling quietly, and just as Betty is drifting off to sleep again she feels Jughead reach over and grab her hand.

 

\--

 

“Laurent, that looks _magnifique!”_ Veronica gushes, standing in front of Betty.

 

Betty smiles nervously. “Yeah?” She reaches her hand up and gently touches her hair. It feels … complicated. “Can I see?”

 

 _“Un moment, mademoiselle.”_ The hairstylist swats her hand away and continues to work at her head. Betty makes eye contact with Veronica and giggles uncomfortably; this whole situation is just strange.

 

She’s at Veronica’s parents’ apartment - a hilariously unrepresentative term for a palatial estate over two floors in a ritzy building on the Upper East side - getting ready for their annual Christmas party. This year it’s quite early - only about a week into December, primarily because Veronica’s parents are planning to spend the three weeks around Christmas in Prague and did not want to miss out on hosting their annual party. Betty’s been to the party before, and it’s always a bit of a fish-out-of-water experience; there are a lot of extremely wealthy and important people, leaving her feeling inescapably like a tiny little ant on the side of a mountain.

 

To her credit, Veronica has picked up on this in previous years, and has lent Betty not only a dress but her hairstylist and makeup artist. The hairstylist, a French man named Laurent, has been at work with her blonde mane for the last twenty minutes. He holds a mirror up for her. _“Voila.”_ He’s produced a twisting updo with slight, delicate curls falling at the front. Earlier, Veronica’s makeup artist gave her a gentle smoky eye with impossibly black lashes, somehow making her eyes look more green.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Betty says to Laurent with a genuine smile. “Thank you so much.”

 

 _“De rien, mademoiselle.”_ Laurent flicks his hand at her in a wave, which Betty realizes is him shooing her away.

 

Veronica grins. “Okay Betty, time for the dress.” Betty stands up dutifully and follows her out of the room, smiling at Hermione who is patiently waiting to enter. As they walk through the hall to Veronica’s former bedroom, she can hear the Frenchman greeting Hermione exuberantly.

 

Veronica walks to a rack at the side of the room where two garment bags are hanging. She unzips one and pulls out a knee-length black dress with short sleeves and a low neckline that Betty can instantly tell is going to mold to every curve of the wearer’s body. She bites her lip, hoping that’s not for her, and is rescued when Veronica holds it up against her own body.

 

“Hot, right?”

 

Betty nods. “Very you,” she says honestly, watching carefully as Veronica sets it down on the bed and then grabs the other dress.

 

This one is way more Betty’s speed, although still likely a bit more revealing than she’d normally choose. The A-line dress has spaghetti straps and a V-neckline with scalloped edges and a nipped-in waist; it looks as if it will fall to just above her knees, which is perfect for Betty. The main fabric of the dress is actually a cream colour, but it has a sheer lace overlay with floral embroidery in a dark red colour that gives the whole piece a sort of muted-red tone. She likes it.

 

“It’s beautiful, V,” she says honestly.

 

Veronica grins. “It’ll look great on you. Much more you than me. Jughead will love it too.”

 

Betty frowns and tries to look as if she has no idea what Veronica is talking about, but even as she does so she can feel her cheeks heat up. “Why would I care if Jughead likes it?”

 

Veronica puts a hand on her hip. “Please, Betty, you’re as transparent as Casper the friendly ghost. Besides me, he’s like the only person you spend time with these days.”

 

“The case--”

 

“Did he stay overnight at your place last night because of _the case?”_ Veronica probes, making the remainder of Betty’s face turn bright red.

 

Shit. “How did you know that?” Betty asks. She thinks back to the previous night, how they’d drank wine and she’d fallen asleep in his arms, and bites her lip. She’d awoken to an empty bed, but he’d left an explanatory text on her phone that she’d stared at for an embarrassing amount of time before finally getting up.

 

 **_Morning sleepyhead. JB is having an emotional crisis because she lost her metrocard so I am on the way home to help. I’ll see you tonight at Veronica’s thing. DO NOT go to that address today without me,_ ** the first had read. This in itself was quite innocuous; it was the follow-up text that had captured Betty’s eye. **_PS,_ ** he’d said, **_I promise there’ll be breakfast next time._ **

 

_Next time._

 

“Archie,” Veronica grins, handing Betty the red dress. “He stopped over at Jughead’s this morning - we had his suit tailored for him - and he’d just gotten home. If it makes you feel better, Archie said he was less than forthcoming with details. So …” She raises an eyebrow at Betty and holds her hands out expectantly. _“Details.”_

 

“There are none,” Betty says stubbornly, standing up and beginning to unbutton her shirt. “We got a new lead at the docks and he came over to double check some of the information in my files, and we ended up falling asleep. Nothing happened.”

 

Veronica makes a face. “Nothing?” she repeats, seemingly disappointed.

 

“Nothing,” Betty confirms. “We just … cuddled, kind of.”

 

“You _cuddled.”_ Veronica starts laughing. “Jughead cuddled. Mr. I-Don’t-Interact-With-Humans. _Cuddling.”_

 

Before she can stop it, the memory of him wrapped around her makes a smile spread across Betty’s face. “Yeah.” She blushes furiously, giving Veronica the middle finger when she grins broadly and points at her. “Shut up.” She sheds her jeans as well and steps into the dress, pulling it up. “Can you zip me?”

 

“Is that why you’re wearing your good underwear?” Veronica teases, dragging the zipper on Betty’s dress up. “In case you end up _cuddling_ again tonight?”

 

“I hate you.”

 

Veronica pulls her own dress on and turns for Betty to zip her into it. “I love you too!” she chirps gleefully.

 

\--

 

The more of these parties that she attends, the better Betty is getting at pretending to be interested in what boring rich people are saying. The first step is to get wine, but the second step is to nurse one glass for as long as possible so that when the boring conversation partner has to get another, she doesn’t have to go with and can escape. If the conversation is really bad, the alternate strategy is to down her glass all at once and use the procurement of another glass as the impetus to exit. Right now, she isn’t sure which she’ll need.

 

Betty takes a tiny sip of her wine and stares at the expensive scotch in the hand of - god, what was his name? Darren? Something like that. He’s been talking to her for nearly twenty minutes and she’s bored to tears. He’s an investment banker, or wants to be, or has an investment account, or _god,_ she stopped paying attention so long ago that Betty doesn’t even know, but he’s clearly trying to flirt with her and she’s really not interested.

 

Unfortunately, because she’d come with Veronica, Betty had been one of the first to arrive. Archie and Jughead aren’t here yet; Reggie is, though, and even though Betty generally finds Reggie somewhat disgusting (harmless, but disgusting) she’s honestly considering going over and talking to him instead. She looks over, briefly considering it, but a touch on her arm makes her look back at Darren, who’s smiling and looking at her.

 

“So you’re a writer, right?” he’s asking.

 

Betty returns his smile politely. “Uh, yeah. Right now I’m a web editor at _Bon Appetit_ but I’d like to write more.”

 

“You don’t look like a writer,” Darren comments, passing his eyes across her dress.

 

Betty frowns. “What do you mean?”

 

“I know writers,” he says. “They’re not usually as gorgeous as you are.” He touches her shoulder, which is bare save for the thin strap of her dress, and Betty takes a step backward.

 

“Sorry, I have to use the washroom,” she says hurriedly, making what she hopes is a polite apology-face and backing up. She turns and heads for the hallway to the washrooms, but just as she gets there she nearly runs straight into someone.

 

“Betty,” the person says, reaching out to steady her. “Everything okay?”

 

It takes her a second to realize that she’s run into Jughead, who’s just entered with Archie in tow, both of them wearing impeccably tailored suits. Betty breathes a sigh of relief. “Yeah, I’m just happy to see you guys!” she says, summoning a wide smile. “You both look so nice!”

 

“Thanks, Betty,” Archie smiles. “Have you seen Veronica?”

 

“Over with her mother by the bar,” Betty directs, pointing. She watches Archie walk away for a moment and then turns back to Jughead, who’s looking at her with a strange look in his eye. “What’s going on?” she asks, tilting her head curiously.

 

Jughead just shakes his head. “You look so beautiful,” he says honestly, meeting her eyes briefly. “Seriously, Betty.”

 

She bites her lip and nudges her shoulder against his. “You’re sweet. Do you want a drink?” When he nods, Betty begins to lead the way through the assembly of guests toward the bar. A tall man who isn’t looking where he’s going steps in her way; Betty stops abruptly, nearly spilling her wine on herself, and is about to frown when Jughead’s hand slides onto the curve of her waist.

 

“Traffic jam,” he jokes, standing slightly behind her.

 

Betty turns and grins at him. The path clears, and they resume weaving toward the bar. He orders a beer, to which Betty raises an eyebrow. “Done with wine for the weekend?” she teases.

 

Jughead chuckles and accepts the beer that’s handed to him - still poured in a crystal glass, of course - and tips the bartender. “Yeah, uh - I had a bit of a headache this morning,” he admits.

 

“The solution is more wine.” Betty winks at him, then lets her eyes fall to her drink and back up to his face so that her newly-dark lashes bat at him slightly. God, she’s so bad at flirting. His hand has dropped from her waist and she wants it to return, but Betty has no idea how to make it happen. She figures his attendance at a fancy event like this - especially in this suit, which is really doing something for her - is as good as she can ask for, and tries to relax her expectations.

 

“Really,” he comments, slowly nodding with a raised eyebrow.

 

Betty takes a long sip, then shrugs. “I don’t know, that’s just what people tell me. I’ve found the actual solution is to drink something slightly less sugary than wine.”

 

“That sounds more legit.” Jughead looks around the hotel ballroom, eyes scanning the crowd casually. He stops suddenly and frowns; Betty watches him, curious, and follows his eyeline to Darren (or whoever) the investment banker, who’s standing about twenty feet away and glaring at them. “What is that dude’s problem?”

 

Betty presses her lips together briefly, sighs, and then touches Jughead’s arm. He glances away from Darren to look at her, confused. She leans up in her heels to speak confidentially into his ear. “I was talking to him before you got here. He’s probably annoyed that I ditched him.”

 

“Oh.” Jughead’s face is unreadable. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You can go back to talk to him if you want.”

 

This cute idiot. “No, he was boring.” Betty laces their fingers together and raises their hands to chest level. She intentionally looks from his face, to their hands, and then back to him, nervously biting the corner of her mouth. “I’m where I want to be.”

 

A look of relief crosses his features briefly, followed quickly by a flush of pink across his face. “Good,” Jughead says with a smile. “Hey Betty?”

 

His eyes are searching her face, and she can’t look away. “Yeah?”

 

He opens his mouth. “I just wanted--”

 

“There you guys are!”

 

Betty whirls around at the sound of Veronica’s voice, startled, nearly tripping over her own feet; luckily, she tips backward into Jughead, and he steadies her with a hand on her shoulder. “V!”

 

Veronica has both eyebrows raised and is holding a hand up in surrender. “Jesus, I didn’t mean to scare you. Daddy wants to give a toast to the wedding party.”

 

“This is a Christmas party,” Jughead informs her slowly.

 

“I know that, Jughead,” Veronica says with mild annoyance. “But it’s my last Christmas party as a legally single woman, and Daddy wants - you know what, no. We don’t need a _reason_ to toast, you just _toast.”_ She pokes a manicured fingernail into Jughead’s shoulder. “And you’ll smile and you’ll like it.”

 

Betty hears the sigh he gives from behind her, but he follows her and Veronica dutifully anyway. She holds her hand out behind herself for him to take again. When he does, she squeezes reassuringly, and once she catches sight of his face she sees that he’s smiling.

 

The toast lasts for way longer than Betty anticipates. As it turns out, the only thing Hiram Lodge loves more than money is his daughter, and by the end of the speech even Betty has tears in her eyes. She raises her glass along with everyone else, takes a drink, and then is pulled away by Nancy to speak to a cousin of hers who had attended Columbia with her and Veronica. Betty scans the crowd as she’s talking to the girl and notices Jughead with Moose and Archie. Relieved, she turns her attention back to her former classmate.

 

By the time she finds Jughead again, she’s two more glasses of wine in - relevant mostly because Betty also has a suspicion that the wine may have something to do with her newfound lack of self-control. He’s alone, sitting off to the side, nursing another beer, which would normally make Betty feel a little sad for him, except that she knows the corner of solitude is his happy place.

 

Nevertheless, she decides to invade it, because his suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair and his white button-up shirt fits him just as well as the jacket does.

 

Betty bounces up to him with all the confidence of twenty ounces of wine. Jughead sees her coming and begins to smile, so she sets her glass on the table in front of him and gives him a moment to set his beer down as well before she plops herself sideways in his lap.

 

Jughead’s face registers momentary surprise, but his right arm goes around her automatically. “Hey you,” he says with a smile, his left hand settling on her knee. “I lost you there for a bit.”

 

“Yeah, sorry.” Betty makes a face. “I saw a girl that Veronica and I went to school with, figured I should say hi.” She touches his tie, a dark red colour that matches her dress suspiciously well. “You look good tonight. Did I tell you that already?”

 

He grins. “You did, but flattery will get you everywhere, Miss Cooper.”

 

Betty giggles and places the tie back against his shirt, smoothing it out. “I thought the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.”

 

Jughead shrugs. “It is,” he says, and suddenly lifts her briefly with his hands, resettling her even closer on his lap. His left hand returns to her leg, but this time falls on her thigh just under the hem of her dress. “But having a beautiful girl compliment you is good too.” His gaze ever-so-briefly falls to her breasts (which are not exactly under wraps in this dress, Betty has to admit - remind her to thank Veronica later) before he lets out an unexpected puff of air and meets her eyes. “This is a really nice dress.”

 

Betty is struck with a sudden and overwhelming feeling of intensity. “Yeah,” she breathes, nodding slowly. She maintains eye contact until she physically can’t anymore, then looks down at his hand on her leg. She so badly wants to turn and straddle him and let his hand get totally lost under her skirt, but this is a fancy party full of fancy people and Betty knows that she can’t. So she settles for pushing it slightly higher, just enough so that only his wrist is visible beneath the embroidered skirt of her dress, and tries to quell the pressure in her chest. “What were you going to say earlier?” she finally asks, looking back at him.

 

He looks as dazed as she feels. “Huh?”

 

“Before Veronica interrupted us.” Betty blushes and threads her fingers into the back of his hair, noticing the absence of his beanie for the first time. “You were going to say something.”

 

“Oh. Yeah.” He swallows. “I, uh…” he trails off, conflict written all over his face, and then asks, “When do you want to go check out that address?”

 

The address. Right. The containers, the potential traffickers, the business card. The whole reason they’re even spending time together right now. _Duh._ She’s so stupid.

 

“Wednesday?” Betty suggests, trying to fight the disappointment that must be evident on her face.

 

“Sounds good to me.”

 

Betty grabs her glass of wine and stands up suddenly, desperately needing to quell her anxiety and embarrassment in the privacy of the bathroom. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll be back.” Before he can reply, she turns on her heel and quickly hurries away.

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me some more love! You guys are the best.
> 
> The next one should be up sooner rather than later, but it'll likely still be a couple of days. Of course, I always say that, so who knows.


	7. seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to post this, but as always I have no self control etc etc.

_ The roses in the window box have tilted to one side,  
_ _ Everything about this house was born to grow and die. _

  * Elton John, “Love Lies Bleeding”



 

 

He drives the blade of the shovel into the tough, semi-frozen dirt, lifting the clay with a quick strain of his biceps, and tosses the load into the wheelbarrow behind him. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand; it’s December and cold, but the work is still physical enough that Jughead is sweating a bit. 

 

He’s in Hell’s Kitchen with a sub-contractor, excavating the site of a new restaurant. The bulk of the excavation was done earlier by machine, but the foundation has to be evenly poured, so Jughead is down in the pit smoothing the edges out manually with a shovel. After so many years of it, this kind of work is almost second nature; he doesn’t like it, but it feels like home. This is what FP Jones III does, because this is what FP Jones I and FP Jones II lived off. This is who he always is, regardless of who he wants to be.

 

Jughead’s in a bit of a mood today, which hasn’t gone unnoticed by some of the guys on his crew. Despite his silence they have spent the morning hassling him (correctly) about his love life. Or lack thereof, realistically - not that he has anyone to blame for that but himself. Three days earlier, he’d had the sexiest girl he’s ever seen literally on his lap, touching his chest with a look in her eyes that he’s been waiting to see for weeks. All he had to do was not be himself.

 

Fail, apparently.

 

Betty hasn’t answered his calls since then, which he can’t really blame her for. Jughead knows he fucked up at the Christmas party. He should’ve said what he wanted to, which was that she is unbelievably gorgeous but also funny and smart and interesting and he wants to take her on a date and then probably also marry her - but instead, he’d freaked out, clammed up, and blurted out something about coming to the address in Queens they’d found on the business card. He’s spent the last three days imagining that he said the first thing instead of the second thing, and god, what a better ending that story has.

 

It’s not like he doesn’t mean it, the first thing; he means all of it, in every way. But in that moment, with her thigh under his hand and her big, honest eyes looking at him, it was all so much. Too much. Jughead has gotten accustomed to relying on himself, to caring about nothing except for seeing his sister happy - but right then, he  _ needed  _ Betty like he’d never needed anyone before in his life. It had been scary as shit, and still is; he’s fucking  _ terrified  _ of her, of what he feels for her, of what he knows deep down this could turn into if he lets it. These things have a history of not turning out well for the Jones family, and Jughead isn’t sure if he can handle the heartbreak.

 

Still, he knows he should’ve said something -  _ anything -  _ other than abruptly changing the subject. Betty had looked like he’d slapped her in the face, and consequently she’d made an excuse and run off. He hadn’t really seen her for the rest of the night, and when he left later, alone and confused, Archie had given him a look. (Even  _ Archie  _ thinks he’s an idiot. SOS.)

 

Jughead pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and glances at it. He wants to text her again, and finally he has a logistical reason to - they’re supposed to go to Queens tonight, and she won’t message him back to coordinate times. He hopes to God that Betty hasn’t gone without him; his overactive and pessimistic imagination can fill many nightmares with the terrible possibilities therein.

 

Just as he’s composing a message to her, inquiring about their evening plans, one comes through. And miraculously, it’s from Betty:  **_Can I come see you at your jobsite at lunch?_ **

 

He responds so quickly that he almost misspells the simplest word.  **_Yes._ **

 

The hour between now and then passes impossibly slowly. Jughead puts all of his focus into digging, trying to avoid thinking about the blonde with the green eyes and the soft skin that will soon make an appearance. He finishes his section with time to spare and ends up helping load gear into one of the trucks to kill more time.

 

This is what he’s doing when Charlie, one of the coworkers he actually likes, calls out for him. “Hey Jug! Someone’s asking for you.”

 

This is it. He still has no idea what he’s going to say to her.  _ Sorry I’m a piece of human garbage and you deserve better but please still like me?   _ Out loud, he calls back, “Okay!”, loads one last box, and heads over to the edge of the site where he can see her standing. 

 

Betty looks pretty, like always. She’s wearing far less makeup than the last time he’d seen her, and Jughead can’t decide which he likes better. (It’s cliche to say that he prefers her natural face, that it looks like  _ her  _ and that’s all he needs; it’s true, of course, but there was also something undeniably sexy about the darkness around her eyes on Saturday night that he can’t stop thinking about. Maybe he’s not picky, he realizes; maybe he just likes  _ Betty.)  _ She’s got on slim-cut black pants and black boots with what looks like a cream-coloured sweater peeking out beneath her wool coat. Her hands are fidgeting inside the navy gloves again, but she stops when she sees him.

 

Betty pushes a white paper bag at him, nibbling on her lower lip. “Burger and fries, from Shake Shack,” she explains, her voice sounding a little nervous.

 

“Thanks,” he says, accepting it. Jughead lifts his free hand and rubs the back of his neck. “Listen, Betty-”

 

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out unexpectedly.

 

The apology interrupts both his mouth and his brain.  _ What? _ “What the hell for?” he asks, bewildered. “I’ve been trying to call you for three days to apologize to  _ you.” _

 

Betty looks sheepish. “For not answering, I guess. And for - god, I should’ve rehearsed this. Look, Juggie, I - I was just embarrassed after the fool I made of myself on Saturday. It wasn’t fair to you for me not to respond, it was childish, and I’m sorry.” She shifts her weight awkwardly to the other foot, looking down at her hands and picking at a stray thread on her gloves. “You probably think I’m - well, I dunno. Whatever you call a girl who throws herself at a guy who’s not into it.”

 

God, he is such a fucking idiot. Jughead lets out a breath in a frustrated huff and shakes his head. “Jesus. Betty, you -  _ no,”  _ he finally spits out, insistent. “I don’t think anything remotely close to that. I think  _ I  _ am a complete moron because you were right there and I froze.” He takes his hard hat off and runs a nervous hand through his hair, then replaces the hat. “Believe me, you weren’t pitching to an empty plate. I wanted to - I - if I wasn’t such a loser, I would’ve done something other than bring up the fucking address in Queens.”

 

Her face softens, and she reaches out to touch his arm. “You’re not a loser, Jughead.”

 

“I am,” he says. “I don’t mean it in a super self-denigrating way. Maybe a little, but - Betty, that was by far the nicest room in any building that I’ve ever been to in my life. And I am a kid from a trailer park. I know you didn’t grow up in that world either, but you seemed so comfortable and so happy talking to people and - I dunno.” Jughead shrugs and looks around at his job site semi-demonstrably, as if it symbolized everything he was trying to say. “I had this moment where it was like, I don’t fit in here. And you were there and you’re just so … well, suffice it to say that girls like you don’t exactly come knocking on my door. I sorta just … panicked. And I’m sorry, you deserved better.” He sighs and looks at her, anxiously awaiting her response.

 

Betty’s face is unreadable. “Are you done?” He nods, and she continues. “Good, because that was a load of crap, Jughead. I believe that you feel that way, but let me tell you that most of that shit either doesn’t matter or isn’t true. So what if you’re from a trailer park? Half the people at that party grew up richer than God and most of them aren’t half the person that you are.” She steps forward and cups his face with her hand. “And as for the other thing, well … I dunno what’s wrong with the girls in Riverdale, because I think you’re one hell of a catch.”

 

Jughead briefly fights an uninspired (and losing) battle against smiling, then lets a cheeky grin spread across his face. “Yeah? How so?” he prompts, bringing a hand to play with one of the buttons on her coat.

 

Betty wrinkles her nose at him playfully. “Well,” she says in a sing-song voice, moving her hand from his arm to his belt loop, “you’re smart, funny, dedicated, sweet…” She edges toward him, and in doing so ensures that there is almost no space left between them. “Kinda cute, too.”

 

His eyebrows shoot up, but the smirk stays on Jughead’s face. He settles his arms around her waist, the Shake Shack bag dangling from his right hand. “I knew that one,” he flirts, “you were  _ so obvious  _ about it.”

 

She giggles and pushes at his shoulder gently. “Shut up.” A faint ringtone sounds from inside Betty’s purse; she pauses and grabs her phone, turning off an alarm. “Shit. I have to go.”

 

“You on your lunch?” Jughead asks. It’s not exactly a two-minute jaunt over from near her workplace; he figures she must have taken the day off. 

 

“Took the afternoon,” Betty answers, “but I’m supposed to meet Veronica right away at a stationery store. We’re looking at options for invitations.” She sighs. “By the way, yes, I’m good for tonight. 7:30?”

 

“7:30 works,” Jughead replies. He bites his lip, then adds, “Betty?”

 

“I’m not expecting anything,” she says before he can ask the question, already extricating herself from his grasp. “Let’s just take things as they comes and see what happens. Okay?” 

 

“Okay,” Jughead agrees.

 

“Good.” Betty leans over and kisses his cheek. “See you later.”

 

He watches her leave, waiting until she turns the corner and is gone before he walks back into the jobsite toward his coworkers, who of course had all been watching their interaction. Jughead eats his lunch quickly, ignoring the teasing remarks from Charlie and the others. The burger and fries are both cold by now, but every time he bites into it he’s reminded that it was Betty who brought it for him, and it’s the best burger he’s ever had.

 

\--

 

Before he heads to Queens, Jughead stops at his apartment with three goals in mind: shower, change, and make sure Jellybean is still alive. 

 

The third happens before the first two, because his little sister is in the kitchen making pasta when he arrives home. She’s listening to a podcast but pauses it when she sees him, giving him a familiar smile. “Hey Jug. You here to eat?”

 

“If it’s quickly consumable,” he replies. “I have to meet Betty in a little bit.”

 

“It will be,” Jellybean promises, turning off the heat on the stove. She takes the pot and brings it to the sink to drain the water out. “So she’s talking to you again?”

 

Jughead frowns. He’s said nothing to Jellybean about his and Betty’s lack of communication over the last few days. “How did you know she wasn’t talking to me?”

 

Jellybean stops mid-draining and gives him a look that clearly reads  _ I’m not stupid.  _ “Give me a break. You’ve been moping around and you’re glued to your cell phone, but never actually seem to  _ use  _ it. Plus you’ve been in even more of a bad mood than you usually are.” She finishes draining the water, then sets the pot back on the stove and begins to combine it with store-bought alfredo sauce. “Doesn’t take a detective to figure out that something’s going poorly with your lady-friend.”

 

_ When the hell did Jellybean grow up?  _ Jughead wonders. He leans against the entrance to the kitchen and rubs his face with his hand. Two minutes ago she was ten years old and asking to play Barbies (rockstar Barbies; JB had always subverted expectations somehow), and now she’s an adult who’s calling him out on his shit. God damn it.

 

“Yeah,” he finally says, figuring that if Jellybean is suddenly an adult, he should start treating her like one. “When did you get so smart? Weren’t you a baby like, yesterday?”

 

“You raised me,” Jellybean reminds him. “Hand me the parmesan cheese from the fridge.” He does, and she tosses some of it on top of the pasta. “So what’s going on with Betty?”

 

Jughead shakes his head. “Nothing with her. Just me being an idiot.” 

 

“I’m shocked,” Jellybean says dryly. “But you’re going to have to give me some more details than that.”

 

He walks through the kitchen and sits on one of the old chairs at their tiny, secondhand dining room table. He watches Jellybean dish out the pasta into two bowls. “To make a long story short, we had a … moment, I guess, where she sort of put herself out there and I should’ve made a move but I didn’t.”

 

Jellybean sets one of the bowls in front of Jughead, and he begins eating immediately. “Why didn’t you?”

 

“Lots of reasons, all of them stupid,” Jughead answers with a half-hearted chuckle. “Most of them boil down to, I can’t actually believe that she might like me.”

 

“I mean, you’re my weird older brother, so I can’t believe that anyone likes you,” Jellybean teases affectionately. “But come on, are you serious? Betty looks at you like she wants to eat you for dinner - which is super gross, by the way. She’s definitely into you. Trust me, I’m an expert now that we’re New Yorkers.”

 

Jughead raises his eyebrows in amusement. “Mhm.”

 

She shrugs. “It’s your life,” she informs him. “But you’ve already spent enough of it dealing with shit you shouldn’t have had to - although like, thank you and all that. You should let yourself be happy, Jug. I really mean that.”

 

“That’s good advice.”

 

Jellybean grins. “Thanks, I’m wise now. Finish your dinner or you don’t get any dessert.” 

 

He laughs at that, amused at the sudden turning of tables, and shovels another forkful of fettucine into his mouth. “Yes mom.” 

 

 

An hour later, he meets Betty in Queens, three blocks from the address on the business card. She’s standing on the corner with her cell phone out, looking anxious, so as soon as Jughead sees her spot him from a distance, he raises his hand in greeting. She’s wearing the same pants as she was at lunchtime, but she’s traded her light-coloured wool coat for a dark jacket. It’s a slightly edgier look, probably more suited to creeping around the neighbourhood.

 

He reaches her in a minute and they fall in step together. “Hey.”

 

She smiles at him. “Hi.”

 

“How was stationery and invitations?”

 

“Ugh.” Betty rolls her eyes. “It was unproductive, but I knew it would be. There are too many options for invitations; you have to poke around and see what you are interested in  _ before  _ going out for quotes. I told her that, but…”

 

“Deaf ears,” Jughead finishes, and Betty nods. “That’s Veronica.” His hands are shoved in his pockets but hers aren’t, and he’s suddenly hyperaware that maybe he should be taking his out in case she wants - he’s not sure.  _ In case she wants to hold hands,  _ his brain tells him, but still another part is doubting himself despite all of the evidence proving otherwise.  _ Why would she?  _

 

Before he has to make a decision, they arrive at the listed address. It’s a nondescript warehouse-style building, about four stories, made of old brick with makeshift plywood windows on the first two floors. He stares up at it, contemplating a plan of action.

 

“This is so cliche it hurts,” Betty observes from beside him. “Is there a fire escape?”

 

Jughead walks a few feet further down the block and peeks around the north side of the building. “Yeah, over here,” he says quietly, waving her toward him.

 

Betty skips over, looking quickly behind herself, and stops beside him. She pulls out her phone and takes a couple of exterior photos, then shoves it back in her pocket and starts walking toward the old metal staircase attached to the side of the building.

 

“Betty, wait.” He reaches out and grabs her arm. “Look at how old this building is. There’s no guarantee that old metal thing is safe to go up.”

 

She seems to consider this, then gives him an apologetic ‘oh-well’ look. “Do you have any better ideas?”

 

“No, but--”

 

“Then let’s try it. Come on.” Betty continues her trek to the fire escape, Jughead following along apprehensively. He glances over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear, then anxiously stands behind her as she begins to climb the rickety old staircase. It’s narrow and steep, and gives Jughead an uncertain feeling that he really doesn’t like, but Betty is stubborn and he’s not about to let her go up alone. So he climbs the stairs after her, trying to quiet his footsteps in case anyone is around.

 

Betty reaches the third floor and peeks through the window. Jughead stands just below her, craning his neck to see her expression. “Can you see anything?” he whispers.

 

She shakes her head. “Let’s try one more up.”

 

He nods, and they begin to climb again. The crisp December air smells weirdly dusty at this elevation, and he’s not sure if it’s a result of their proximity to the building or generally because of the neighbourhood. They’re three steps short of the landing when he hears it: a scream, quite faint but distinct, coming from inside the building. Jughead freezes and screws his eyes shut, trying desperately to listen, but he hears nothing more. Betty turns around very slowly, hands gripping the old metal railing tightly, and he can tell by the look of horror in her eyes that she also heard it.

 

“Jug, did you just hear--”

 

“Yeah.” His heart is pounding in his chest suddenly, and it’s difficult to swallow his fear. “We need to get out of here and call the police.”

 

\--

Jughead has always marveled at the frequent inappropriateness of his initial, gut-instinct thoughts in stressful situations. When his mom split on them, the first thing he remembers thinking of is how much he fucking hates playing with Jellybean’s pink legos, and how much more he’d have to do it now that the list of possible Jones-family playmates was down to two. And when his dad had been sent to prison, even before thinking of Jellybean or college or plans of any kind, Jughead’s first thought had been that the extra chicken breast he’d thawed for dinner that evening was going to go to waste. 

 

And now, as he’s chasing after Betty down an avenue in Queens, his thought is  _ wow, she’s a pretty fast runner in heeled ankle boots. _

 

That said, they’re still boots, versus his flat running shoes. Combining that with his height advantage, Jughead catches up with her fairly easily. He grabs her wrist. “Betty!” he says breathlessly. “Stop.” When she does, he can see that she’s crying. He sighs and pulls her into his arms.

 

“How could they do nothing?!” she hiccups, her shoulders shaking under his hands. “I heard that scream, we  _ heard it,  _ how could the police do nothing?”

 

Jughead doesn’t have an answer for her. In fact, he’d probably join her in crying if that hadn’t been crushed out of him thanks to the toxic masculinity of having thirty members of a biker gang as pseudo-uncles growing up. He was frustrated too; the precinct had sent an officer over, but he’d been unable to see or hear anything suspicious. Therefore, there was no probable cause; and despite Betty hurriedly explaining about the links between the containers and the business card and the contacts in Eastern Europe, there was nothing that he could do beyond knocking on one of the side doors (to no answer, of course).

 

(“I’m sorry, ma’am, but one scream - allegedly - from inside a building isn’t cause to enter without a warrant.”)

 

He’d given Jughead his card and then left, which Betty had taken quite poorly. Like him, she’s convinced that in the warehouse right now are trafficked people, most likely girls, and like him, she’s probably got a terrible mental picture of all of the terrible things that are probably happening. The difference between them, Jughead realizes, is that he’s an internalizer, and she apparently is not - at least not in this case. 

 

Jughead stands there with her for a few more minutes; Betty’s fists are clutching his jacket tightly, face buried near the hollow of his throat, but after a while she isn’t crying anymore.

 

“We can’t give up,” she says into his neck, the words interrupted by a hiccup.

 

“We won’t,” he says, an unexpectedly fierce edge creeping into his voice. “We’ll come back tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that. We’ll come back until we don’t need to anymore. We’ll  _ find  _ the probable cause for a warrant, I promise.”

 

Betty sniffs and pulls back from the hug, nodding. “Yeah,” she agrees with a shaky voice. “Okay.” She swipes at the tears in her eyes and swallows visibly, clearly trying to gather herself. “Let’s go home.”

 

Jughead nods, still watching her with concern, and this time as they walk back to the train he doesn’t have to think twice about grabbing her hand. 

 

 

They go back to his apartment, because Jughead doesn’t want Betty to be alone tonight (and honestly, he doesn’t want to be alone either) and he needs to make sure that Jellybean is up in time for her last final the following day. She’s typically had her books spread out for cramming in her bedroom, but when they walk in the door she’s making a snack in the kitchen.

 

“Hi JB,” Betty says quietly, giving her a small smile despite her obvious mood. “How’s the studying going?”

 

“Good, I think I--” Jellybean’s voice falters as she turns to greet them. Her eyes slide from Betty’s face to Jughead, who worries his lower lip between his teeth and shakes his head slightly. “Everything … okay?”

 

“We’re okay,” Jughead replies, taking Betty’s coat from her and hanging it on the hook by the door. He shrugs his own jacket off and then takes her hand again. “Don’t stay up too late. Get a good night’s sleep for your test tomorrow.”

 

“I’m an adult, Jughead,” Jellybean reminds him, her eyes dropping less-than-smoothly to his and Betty’s joined hands.

 

“No, you’re still ten years old,” he deadpans, the joke taking on an extra layer for him because of their earlier conversation. “Go play with your Barbies.”

 

She rolls her eyes at him, but Jughead can see in his sister’s eyes that she’s concerned. She grabs the sandwich she’d made and heads back to her room. Jughead gives Betty’s hand a tug, and they follow Jellybean’s path down the hallway, slipping into his bedroom instead.

 

“What do you want to do?” he asks her once the door is closed.

 

Betty sits on the edge of his bed. Her face is still a combination of sadness and muted anger, but as she looks up at him he can see that there’s also now a thin sheen of exhaustion overtop. “Can we kinda just … cuddle?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, going over to his dresser. He opens one of the drawers and pulls out a t-shirt and a clean pair of boxers. “Here. For sleeping,” Jughead adds as he hands them to her. “I’ll give you a second.” 

 

He steps out into the hallway as she changes. When she’s done, Betty opens the door again, and he slips inside. Some kind of primal caveman instinct flames inside of him briefly at the sight of her in his clothes, but he pushes it down as they climb into his bed. That is not what tonight is about.

 

He lays on his back, shoulders and head propped up by a couple of pillows, and holds an arm open for Betty. She rolls close to him and briefly lays on her side with a few inches separating them before scooting over so that she is flush against him. She turns onto her right side and rests her head on his chest, one arm thrown across his torso. As her left foot hooks around his ankle, Jughead tightens his arm at her waist and uses his free hand to pull the covers up over top of them.

 

There’s silence for a long time, and Jughead has actually started to think that she’s fallen asleep when Betty speaks. “Jug?”

 

He kisses the top of her head. “Yeah, Betts?”

 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For doing this with me. Right now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

 

She presses her lips over his heart, and his eyes close at the feeling. “I can’t either.”

 

\--

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to catch up on everyone's comments, but thank you so much to those who have reviewed! Please take a minute to leave me some more love!


	8. eight

_You’ll need assistance with the things_  
_That you have never ever seen;_  
_It’s just a case of never breathing out_  
_Before you’ve breathed it in_

  * Oasis, “Up in the Sky”



 

 

For eight days in a row, Betty has gone to Queens to climb the fire escape with Jughead. They’ve sat on every landing, taken photos through every empty accessible window, and spent hours in silence as they listen for more signs of life from inside. And for eight days in a row, they’ve come up empty.

 

It’s just shy of two weeks before Christmas and despite the holiday atmosphere around the city, Betty isn’t feeling the spirit of the season. Typically, she’s all about decorations, tree-shaped cookies, and elaborate gift-wrapping, but this year she’s too distracted by their failing investigation to follow the usual traditions. It’s cold and snowy, and even though the entrance of winter is usually a happy sign, all it tells Betty is that time is marching forward without them having made any progress.

 

So on the ninth day, she texts Jughead an hour before they’ve agreed to meet to go to Queens. **_I think we should go back to the docks instead._ ** Betty then turns back to her laptop, where she's streaming old proceedings of the NY state senate in the hopes of finding a good frame of the empty seat of a senator with a notoriously bad attendance record. One of her regular freelancers has submitted an article highlighting the pattern of absences, but he hasn’t included any accompanying photos. The layout of her website is such that the articles look best with corresponding images; and since what she really needs are hits, the more easily digestible, the better - without sacrificing content and style, of course.

 

Jughead responds quickly. **_Sure, worth a try. We’ve come up pretty much empty at the warehouse._ **

  
Betty smiles, briefly relieved that he agrees. She’s not really that surprised; they’ve been on a pretty similar wavelength lately, for which she’s grateful. She can’t imagine not pursuing this the way that they have been - out there every night, like clockwork, watching. She needs Jughead to be there, but she knows that it’s not as easy for him. Like her, he’s also been frustrated by the lack of progress on their case; but unlike her, before he meets her to walk around Queens and stand on a cold fire escape for hours, he first has been doing rough manual labour for nine hours and then cooking dinner for his sister. When they’d met the night prior at the warehouse, Betty had noticed the circles under his eyes were darker than usual. He’d dismissed her concern, but she hadn’t forgotten.

 

Despite that, she can’t stop going, and she knows that he’ll be upset if she tries to go without him, so they’re stuck in a loop. During the day, she alternates between actually doing her day job and doing online research into non-profits and governmental organizations that support victims of trafficking, but as this is going on, it occurs to Betty that maybe she’s been wrong all along. After all, the only evidence she has that _trafficking_ is even what’s going on is that first initial anonymous tip and the loose ties between shell company board members and known traffickers in Europe.

 

And her gut instinct, which she’s never been good at ignoring.

  
She takes a screenshot after finally spotting a good frame of the senator’s empty chair and inserts it into the layout. Betty does a final edit, then backs up the submission and posts it. She wolfs down a sandwich as she changes into darker jeans and a warmer sweater, then hurries out of her apartment to meet Jughead.

 

She meets him at the train, then they take an Uber to the docks. He looks less tired than he had yesterday, but the bags under his eyes are still there. Betty bites her lip against the instinct to vocalize her concern, knowing it won’t do any good, but when they get out of the car she grabs his hand anyway. She’s been doing it a lot recently, ever since staying the night with him in his bed, and he’s always responded by lacing their fingers together. There’s _something_ between them, there’s no doubt; what it is exactly, Betty has yet to figure out. They seem to have an unspoken agreement that they’ll hold off on exploring whatever it is until this case, which has suddenly consumed their lives, has either been solved or petered out to a point where they can no longer pursue it.

 

With the unspoken agreement noted, holding off isn’t always easy for Betty; especially not on days like today, where it’s chilly and she can sense the warmth radiating from him (particularly since she knows exactly what it feels like to be wrapped up in his arms). She settles for holding his hand and pressing her leg against his on the train, but since the added time isn’t doing much to quell her crush, Betty knows it’s only a matter of time before her willpower gives out.

 

Jughead leads her down the corridors between the containers, which have moved slightly since the last time they’d been here. They locate a couple of shipments from their target companies and stake out a spot a few rows down - far enough away to run, but close enough to be in plain view. They stand and watch for half an hour before Betty’s teeth start chattering; she’s forgotten how the added proximity to the water puts a bite into the already-chilly air, and definitely regrets not wearing a warmer coat.

 

“C’mere,” Jughead says in a whisper. When Betty steps closer he takes her shoulders, turns her slightly to face away from him, and tucks her into the heat of his body. His arms slip over hers and into the pockets of her jacket, covering her hands. “Better?”

 

Betty lets herself sink into Jughead’s chest and rubs his thumb with hers. “Yeah. Thank you.”

 

“What kind of guy would I be if I let you freeze?”

 

She smiles to herself. “It would definitely be a blemish on your record. You’re always a perfect gentleman.”

 

Jughead laughs quietly, the movement sending a surprise flurry of what are definitely butterflies into her stomach. “I’m not always that gentle, Betts,” he says lowly into her ear, his voice rumbling against her neck.

 

 _That_ sends a pleasurable thrill down Betty’s spine, and she swallows hard before replying, “I hope that’s a promise.”

 

He squeezes her hands in response. Betty hears an intake of breath, as if he’s about to speak, but before he can say anything they’re cut off by a loud, “FBI! Hands in the air!”

 

They spring apart, Betty’s hands flying up quickly, and immediately are surrounded by three men, each of which is pointing a gun at them. They’re wearing dark jackets with a reflective “FBI” stamp, so Betty’s pretty sure they’re legit - but all the same, her heart is beating in her throat and fear rises in her chest.

 

“We’re reporters,” Betty says quickly, “we haven’t done anything wrong.”

 

All the same, one of the agents steps out, holstering his gun, and briefly pats down Betty and Jughead. When he’s satisfied that they don’t have any weapons, he nods his head, and the others lower their guns.

 

“I’m Agent Williams, these are Agents Calhoun and Forrester. You’ve been loitering around these docks for the better part of an hour,” Agent Williams says. “Can you explain what you’re doing here?”

 

On pure instinct, Betty feels her lower lip begin to tremble; she sets her teeth together and takes a deep breath through her nose to settle it before replying. “Like I said, we’re reporters,” she says, trying to summon all of the confidence she has. At a bare minimum, it’s not illegal to be here after dark, so she’s not breaking any laws. “I’m Betty Cooper, and this is Jughead Jones. I run an independent news site called Blueprint and a while back I got an anonymous tip about human trafficking off the docks here in Red Hook. Since then we’ve been trying to authenticate it, see what we can find.” She swallows, still nervous, but calms a bit when she feels Jughead’s arm brush up against hers.

 

Agents Williams and Calhoun exchange looks. “A while back _when?”_

 

“Uhh…” Betty trails off, thinking. It feels like forever ago.

 

“September,” Jughead supplies, and Betty thinks, _yes._ It had been around the time of the engagement party, just after the new school year began. A lifetime ago, for sure; but also like yesterday, all the same.

 

“Okay.” Agent Williams sighs. “I’m going to ask both of you to come back to the office with me. You two stay here, keep me updated if there’s any movement. Miss Cooper, Mr. Jones - come with me.”

 

Betty nods and quickly follows as the man leads them off through the rows of shipping containers and through the maze of equipment that separates the docks from the street. Jughead walks beside her, looking stoic with his hands shoved in his pockets. She can see an edge to his jaw that’s slightly sharper than usual and wonders if his experience with both gang life and the law has tempered his opinion of authority.

 

Even if it has, Betty decides, she’s glad he’s with her.

 

They slide into the back of an unmarked black SUV. Betty requests for them to make a stop at her apartment so that she can grab her laptop - if they’re going to prove their innocence or convince the agents that they’re not crazy, she’s going to need her files. Williams reluctantly acquiesces and she takes the steps two at a time, so fast that she nearly trips on the way back.

 

They’re taken to the federal building in Tribeca and hastily assembled into a small room for questioning. Betty again explains about the website and the anonymous tip, but when she gets to the list of maple-themed shell companies (assembled through many a night of tedious recording of names and the reading of loosely translated annual reports and media articles from Eastern European countries), she’s stopped and asked to repeat her process.

 

“Basically, it’s the process of elimination brought to you by Google Translate,” Betty says, “plus some hunches and - uh - informed guesswork.” She makes eye contact with Jughead, not sure that she wants to immediately divulge his advice, as it was based on his father’s gang and affiliated criminal activities.

 

The agents pour over the list. “You’ve got most of them on there,” Williams informs her. “You said you had other files. Like what? Photos?”

 

Betty nods and pulls up a subfolder in her laptop’s image gallery. There, with careful notes indicating the time, date, and location, are several hundred photos of the men that they had seen lurking around various shipping containers. Betty also pulls up both an image of the business card they’d found and the business card itself, sliding it across the table. “We also found this.”

 

It’s quickly snatched with particular interest and the address is mapped. “It’s in Queens,” one of the agents reports.

 

“We went there, too,” Jughead adds. “We heard - uh-” he looks at Betty, who presses her lips together and nods slightly. “We heard a scream from inside. About ten days ago. Called the NYPD, but they weren’t able to do anything about it.”

 

“A scream?” Agent Williams repeats.

 

“Yeah.” Jughead shifts awkwardly in his chair. “We were on the fire escape and - look, people think we’re crazy, but we both heard it. Sharp and short, like it was cut off unexpectedly. We’ve been going back to that warehouse every night since, but we’ve never seen anyone around.”

 

“Did anyone see you?” Williams demands.

 

“No, I don’t think so,” Betty answers. “Look, you can have all of this information - we’ll tell you and show you everything. I’ll give you administrative access to the website - I tried to trace the tip, but I’m sure you guys have more sophisticated equipment at your disposal than I do.” She takes a deep breath and adds, _“But --_ we have spent countless hours looking into this, and lots of sleepless nights, wondering, waiting, watching - we want to know what’s going on.”

 

There’s a long silence, then Agent Williams folds his hands and meets Betty’s eyes directly. “Okay, I’ll level with you. There’s a single exporter controlling all of these companies on your list here.” He points to one of Betty’s spreadsheets. “The exporter has been identified as a potential participant in a human smuggling and trafficking ring. We’ve been tracking the movements stateside and in Europe for months. I don’t know who contacted you, but I intend to find out.” He then levels his gaze at Jughead. “I’m sure the two of you can appreciate, this is serious business. This is not a project. People’s lives are at stake. I can’t have you two running around at night like it’s some kind of game.”

 

Betty closes her eyes briefly. She feels a little bit like an idiot for not trying to pursue this through the proper authorities before; and although they’d contacted the NYPD a couple of weeks prior, Betty knows that there were other avenues that they could have taken. In her head, she thinks it would’ve been better to approach the authorities when they had a smoking gun - but of course, the FBI would understand the delicate nature of this specific situation.

 

“We understand that,” she finally says, summoning as much of her mother as she feels safe channeling. “And I assure you, Agent Williams, we know this is not a game.” The nightmares she’s had over the last nine days has proved that to her. Yes, they’re in over their heads; she can recognize that. That said, she’s mildly offended at the insinuation that they’re just playing detective; although in reality, Betty realizes, maybe they are. Certainly, she has no training that would qualify her to be doing something like _this --_ just passion, drive and a deep-seated desire to make things right.

 

(Perhaps that’s not enough.)

 

Over the next three hours, Betty provides the FBI with the originals of all of their assembled evidence, recalling that she still has access to the copies she keeps backed up in the cloud. Both of them give official statements, and she relinquishes administrative access of her website and the tip email to the FBI briefly so that they can attempt to track the IP address of the anonymous tip that started this whole thing. Jughead walks the agents through each of the photos, adding anecdotal detail to the situations, and they discuss the external layout and appearance of the warehouse. They also provide all of their pertinent contact information and agree to stay away from both the docks and the warehouse site.

 

In exchange, Betty and Jughead manage to negotiate first access rights for when an arrest is inevitably made. Essentially - the FBI will give them a heads up, and they’ll have an article nearly-ready to publish. Betty knows it doesn’t have to be honoured, but at this point in her career she is also just glad to be able to play any kind of role at all.

 

They are driven home around midnight, and Betty falls into bed easily. She’s asleep the moment her head hits the pillow, exhausted from the interrogation and the cold.

 

\--

 

The call comes on December 26th, far earlier than Betty had expected. She’s at home in New Hampshire with her parents, her older sister Polly, and Polly’s twin boys. Luckily, before parting for Christmas (she to her parents’ and he to Riverdale with Archie, Jellybean, and Veronica), Jughead had put together a draft article highlighting the details that they knew: the shipping containers, the Eastern European exporters, the warehouse in Queens, the mysterious figures on the docks. Betty had done some editing (and she maintains that they were _light_ edits, regardless of what Jughead says), then they’d saved the draft for future use.

 

So as soon as Betty gets a phone call from a federal number, she scrambles to coordinate answering it with opening a blank document on her computer. On the other end is a communications director of some sort who provides Betty with bare-bones details. There are five local arrests, varying in age and nationality, with one American and four originally from three different Central and Eastern European countries; three locations of importance, including the docks, the warehouse, and another location in Brooklyn that had apparently acted as a sort of boarding facility; and fifteen rescued individuals from Moldova and Ukraine, including four men and their wives, and seven girls ranging in age from 12 to 21. The director finishes their conversation by informing her that the FBI estimates that there are dozens of men, women, and children from this ring across the country, a fact which makes Betty want to throw up.

 

Betty texts Jughead as soon as she’s finished with the FBI contact. **_FBI called. Skype NOW._ **

 

He’s on within ten minutes, and as soon as she sees his face, Betty feels like crying.

 

“It’s worse than I could have imagined,” she says, trying to keep the tone of her voice level. “The ruse was that these people could get to the States with their families, live a better life, all that. But when they get here, the men are essentially slave labour - kept prisoner to work off the cost of the crossing while their wives and daughters are prostituted. Even better if the women come alone without husbands.”

 

Jughead’s face turns ashen and he too looks nauseous. “Jesus fuck,” he swears, shaking his head. The connection isn’t the best, but Betty can see his jaw set angrily. He runs his hand over his face. “Okay. I’m opening the document now. I saved it on our Google Docs so we can edit it together right now if you want.”

 

“Okay.” Betty finds the invite from him in her email and opens the draft. She watches his indicator move swiftly across the pages, making edits in various spots. As he writes, Betty takes the early-press release booking photos she receives in an email from the FBI and inserts them into her templates so that they’re ready for his accompanying words. She chooses a few of their photos as well - mostly ones from the docks, but also an exterior shot of the warehouse for stage-setting - and readies those for publication.

 

When Jughead is done with in-text edits, he starts on a few final paragraphs outlining the assumed next steps for the FBI - working with field offices and partner organizations across the country to track down associate offenders and rescue the trafficked individuals. Betty begins to review from the top, making minor changes here and there, and when she’s nearly finished with the whole thing she looks up at Jughead in the corner of her screen.

 

He’s staring at her. “I can’t believe this is it,” he says.

 

“Yeah,” Betty responds softly. “Well, kind of. Hopefully we can keep track of any progress on this and do update posts and that sort of thing.”

 

“We?” Jughead asks, a smile creeping onto his face.

 

Betty raises an eyebrow. “You aren’t getting away that easily. I can’t believe how swiftly you were able to rewrite this.” She makes a last formatting change and then sighs heavily, looking at him on her screen. “I’m about to post. Are you ready?”

 

“As I’ll ever be.”

 

Betty bites her lip, nods, and clicks _post._ Within seconds, Jughead’s words and her photos fill the screen. It feels surreal. “There it is.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, somewhat tiredly. “So apart from this, what - oh! Look at the byline!”

 

She grins at the camera. “Yeah. _F. Jones and E. Cooper._ You like?” She has a brief moment of fear, then asks, “You do go by F. Jones, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah, I suppose it _is_ my name. Still weird seeing it every time,” Jughead says ruefully. “It’s like, who’s that? Oh right, me.” He shrugs. “Also, is your name actually Elizabeth?”

 

“Most Bettys are, yep.”

 

He frowns, as though he’s considering this for the first time. “Also weird. Elizabeth. Very … regal.”

 

Betty smiles and squares her shoulders. She folds her hand and waves slowly, pretending to survey the spare bedroom she’s sitting in. “Yes, I am your queen,” she proclaims.

 

“And I your humble servant.” Jughead is smiling, which in itself is a tad rare, but this time his eyes are sparkling too. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled online for the official press release.”

 

“Cool. Say hi to JB and Archie and V for me. When are you back in the city?”

 

Jughead nods. “Not tomorrow but the day after. And will do. JB is having a good time; Veronica is a bit of a novelty this year, so that’s entertaining her. Yesterday they bonded a little over how cool you are.”

 

Betty snorts. “Nobody’s ever accused me of being _cool_ before. But great, that’s flattering, I think.” She fidgets with her hands briefly, then adds, “It’s weird not seeing you every day. Text me when you get back into the city? I owe you a drink.”

 

“Definitely.” Jughead peers closer to the screen, his blue eyes magnified artificially, and winks. “Don’t forget, Betts, I owe you breakfast too.”

 

\--

 

She sees him three days later, because in true Veronica fashion, the first thing on the agenda when returning to the city is wedding-related.

 

This time it’s flowers, which Betty is actually excited about. She used to work part-time at a florist back in New Hampshire, and although she’s not an expert, she definitely has a bit of an appreciation for bouquets and combinations. She even dresses for the occasion, purposely wearing a black dress that’s patterned with little purple flowers. Veronica laughs when she sees it, a grin spreading across her perfectly made-up face.

 

“Betty, you’re adorable. I knew you’d be excited for the flowers,” she says, greeting her at the front of the florist’s shop and helping her take her coat off.

 

Betty smiles and gives her a hug. “Yeah, I figured I should go with the spirit of the season,” she jokes, smiling her thanks to the attendant that takes her jacket from Veronica. “Jughead here yet?”

 

“Not yet, but now I know that that’s the _other_ reason you wore this dress,” Veronica teases.

 

Betty’s face heats up. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says. It’s not necessarily that she’s keeping her crush on Jughead a secret; it’s more than she’s not sure _what_ is going on. Although Veronica always has the best of intentions, her involvement in things does not always ensure smooth sailing.

 

Unfortunately, Betty is bad at both lying and looking nonchalant, so Veronica can see through her right away. “Um, how about the fact that your boobs are out to say hello--”

 

 _“Shhh,”_ Betty hushes, her blush deepening. “Not so loud.”

 

“Oh please, only Archie’s here.” Veronica looks over her shoulder; Betty follows her gaze, but it doesn’t land on Archie. “Somewhere, anyway. The attendant probably took him to look at roses.” She shrugs. “Jughead should be here soon, though. The girls look good.” Veronica winks and saunters up to a bouquet. “What are you thinking for flowers, B?”

 

Betty shakes her head at her friend. Okay yes, the dress is slightly low-cut, but it’s a wrap dress. That’s just what _happens._ It’s not at all intentional.

 

(Not totally, anyway.)

 

Putting that in the back of her mind, Betty follows Veronica over to the back, where the florist is already running through a variety of options with Archie. They range from the traditional (roses, roses, and more roses) to the slightly more unconventional (daisies) to the downright weird (full-leaf kale and grapes as accent pieces). They’ve decided not only to do boutonnieres for the men and bouquets for each of the bridesmaids, flower girl, and bride, as is expected, but Veronica has also expressed a desire for flowers to be part of the decorations. There’ll be floral arrangements on each of the dinner tables, flowers up and down the aisle, and flowers on either side of the officiant.

 

And then the slide turns to a floral fountain, and all bets are off.

 

Betty spends the next twenty minutes trying to convince Veronica that the floral fountain is too much - particularly since the arrangement featured, which Veronica has demanded she _must have,_ features exclusively flowers that will need to be imported for a September wedding. It’s not until she’s finally called her off (earning a grateful smile from Archie) that her phone buzzes, and she realizes Jughead hasn’t arrived yet.

 

**_Hey, I’m not going to make it to flowers. JB broke her wrist and we’re at the hospital getting it set._ **

 

“Oh no,” Betty says, only realizing she spoke aloud when Archie and Veronica turn to face her curiously. “Um. Jellybean broke her wrist and Jughead is at the hospital with her so he won’t make it.”

 

Veronica makes a sympathetic face. “That’s shitty. Tell him it’s okay, and that we hope JB heals quickly.”

 

Betty nods and types out a quick response. **_I’m so sorry to hear that :( All three of us send our love to JB and hope she’s doing okay._ ** She looks up at Veronica. “I think you should go with peonies instead of roses. But make sure you get the herbaceous ones. They last longer once cut.”

 

“Yeah?” Veronica says, thinking. She turns to the attendant. “Can we see some arrangements with peonies?”

 

“Sure, Ms. Lodge.” The woman beckons Archie and Veronica closer and pulls out a series of hardcover books.  Betty stands slightly to the side, eyes locked on her cell phone for his reply.

 

It comes quickly. **_She’ll be fine. She slipped on the ice so her ego’s hurt worse than anything. I do feel bad that this wedding is going to fall apart without my precious opinions on floral arrangements._ **

 

Betty manages to suppress a giggle, although a smile does creep onto her face. **_Yeah, you guys will be anemones now,_ ** she writes, a little too proud of her joke. Corny, sure, but - she’s not exactly known for her wit, and this is a good moment for her.

 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t land. **_I’m not following._ **

 

Betty sighs in disappointment. **_Anemones are a kind of flower. It sounds like ‘enemies’. It’s a joke,_ ** she responds, crinkling her nose with irritation. Explaining a joke always kills it.

 

His reply, like many of the things he says and does, makes her both scoff with annoyance and smile like a little girl who has a crush. **_You’re smart and beautiful, Betty; you should probably quit while you’re ahead._ **

 

 

Once Veronica and Archie have selected most of their flowers, they invite Betty to dinner. She declines; although she’s third-wheeled it with them many times in the past, she has somewhere else she’s interested in eating. She makes a pit stop at home and then heads toward Jughead and Jellybean’s apartment, but gets off a stop early. She stops at the Thai restaurant she knows Jellybean loves and orders an unhealthy amount of takeout, then staggers six blocks with it under her alarm until she reaches their apartment.

 

She buzzes to be let in, and as expected, is greeted with Jughead’s voice on the intercom. “Hello?”

 

He sounds suspicious, like nobody ever comes to see them and _what does she want,_ but Betty knows it’s more about his protectiveness over his sister than anything. “It’s Betty!” she chirps, hoping they haven’t already made dinner.

 

“Betty,” he repeats, the surprise evident in his voice even over the fuzzy intercom. “Come on up.”

 

The door buzzes and she tugs it open, then Betty takes the sketchy elevator up to his floor. The rickety doors open and she steps into the hallway, turning to the right to go to his place. She pauses her steps when she sees him standing in the hallway waiting for her, leaning against his open door frame.

 

“Hi,” she says, suddenly feeling moderately shy. “You guys haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

 

Jughead shakes his head. “Nope.” A smile spreads wide on his face and she sighs in relief. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

 

“Oh sorry, do you have a girl in there?” Betty asks with fake seriousness. “Because I can go, you two can eat this.”

 

“I do, since you asked,” Jughead responds solemnly. “Her name is Penelope Cruz, not sure if you’ve heard of her?”

 

Betty laughs. “Glad to see you’re still dreaming big, Juggie.” She walks up to him and pushes the two heavy bags of containers into his hands. “I need to go see the patient.”

 

She finds Jellybean sitting on the couch, watching TV with a mildly disgruntled look on her face. Her left wrist is in a cast, and Betty smiles when she notices it’s already signed with a tiny hand-drawn crown and a simple _Jug._ Jellybean looks up when Betty enters. “Hey! Jughead didn’t say you were coming!”

 

“I didn’t tell him,” Betty says with a small smile. “I figured since you guys were at the hospital getting all bandaged up that you didn’t have time to cook yet. How are you?”

 

Jellybean crinkles her nose and drags her fingers across her face dramatically. “Literally this is so embarrassing, I can’t. It’s not even _cool._ It’s a simple fracture and they said I should be okay in four to eight weeks but - Betty, people are going to _ask me about it._ ‘JB, how did you break your wrist? Boxing? Kicking someone’s ass?’ And I’m going to have to be like, ‘Actually I was just out on the street and fell on the ice because I learned how to walk just yesterday’.”

 

Betty tries to suppress her laughter but is unable to, and what comes out is less of a chuckle and more of a somewhat repressed snort. “Sorry,” she says, holding her hands up when Jellybean looks over at her in shock. “I just - you could always lie,” she suggests. “Maybe you _did_ break your wrist beating someone up.”

 

“You’re supposed to be a _good_ influence on the younger generation,” Jughead reminds her, coming to stand at Betty’s side. “Jellybean, there’s Thai, if you want some.”

 

Jellybean rolls her eyes at Jughead. “You’re my brother, dumbass. We’re in the same generation. But since you insist on being so dad-like…” She sprawls across the couch and gives him puppy eyes. “Will you bring me some?”

 

“You broke your wrist, not your ankle,” Jughead says by way of response. “Betts, come and fill a plate - I know she looks little, but Jellybean eats more than a football team, I swear.”

 

“So she’s a true Jones,” Betty comments, winking at Jughead. She’s had enough meals with him by now to know that he doesn’t have a leg to stand on in this debate. She goes back to the front door and shrugs her coat off, hanging it on the hook over top of his plaid jacket.

 

When she turns around, she’s face to face with Jellybean, who is attempting to move past her to go to the washroom. _“Whoa!”_ she says, raising a hand to cover her eyes. “I’m going to assume those are for my brother and not me.”

 

Betty looks down and realizes that her wrap dress has shifted slightly, and while there is usually a decent amount of cleavage showing, her current display is a bit too generous. “Oh my god,” she says quickly, her face burning red. She readjusts her dress. “Sorry. That was unintentional.”

 

“No worries.” Jellybean lowers her hand and flashes a teasing grin. “I assume that they have _something_ to do with how happy Jug has been lately, so by all means. Boob away.” She flits past Betty on her way to the bathroom, leaving Betty standing in the entranceway, feeling a little overwhelmed.

 

Jughead turns the corner and frowns when he sees her frozen in place. “You look like you just got hit by a - oh god. _Jellybean,_ what did you say?!” he calls sternly.

 

“Nothing, nothing,” Betty jumps in, shaking her head and forcing a smile onto her face. “Oh! I also brought this.” She rifles through her purse and comes up with a plastic wrap for a wrist cast. “I sprained my wrist pretty bad a couple years ago and bought this for showering. It’ll protect her cast from water.”

 

Jughead takes it from her, a surprised but grateful smile on his face. “Thanks, Betty,” he says, blue eyes full of honesty and intent as he looks at her.

 

The way he’s staring at her is both thrilling and unnerving, and after a few moments Betty feels overwhelmed and has to break the connection. She smiles nervously and moves to load up her plate. “You’re welcome. Let’s eat.” She quickly shoves a few helpings of pad thai onto her plate and hurries to the living room.

 

Jughead follows her with his own plate and sits next to her on the couch. Jellybean joins them shortly after, plopping down in the armchair and slinging her legs over the side. “This is awesome, Betty, thanks for bringing it,” she says.

 

“You’re welcome,” Betty responds promptly, still feeling slightly nervous. God, she was so _obvious,_ even his little sister could tell. She knows he’s attracted to her, but sometimes he’s so hard to read and unpredictable that she’s not entirely sure what might scare him off at any given time.

 

Jughead knocks her knee with his, and when she looks up at him questioningly, he gives her a reassuring smile. “Thank you from me too.”

 

It relaxes her a bit, the goofy look in his eyes and the slight quirk of his lips. “Anytime,” she says, exhaling her nerves. She settles back into the worn couch and shoves another forkful of pad thai into her mouth, letting the flavour combination distract her and occupy her senses.

 

They spend the rest of the evening watching bad reality TV until around ten o’clock, when Betty realizes she should probably leave if she’s going to get back to her place. She does have to work in the morning, and even though most of her office is still on Christmas holidays, someone has to hold down the fort. Additionally, activity on the Blueprint has been going crazy ever since they’d broken the news about the trafficking ring, and Betty has a lot of moderating and submissions to filter.

 

Jughead stands when she does, mumbling, “I’ll walk you out,” which seems to be more for Jellybean’s sake than hers. As soon as Betty turns into the kitchen, he grabs her hand and tugs her toward him.

 

Betty smiles as his arms slide around her waist and haul her flush against his body. He smells good - aftershave, she realizes, and unconsciously one of her hands raises to touch his face. “They went with peonies instead of roses,” she says softly, her eyes desperately searching his face for a sign of exactly what he wants in this moment.

 

True to form, Jughead doesn’t give her one; but this time, he leans in and kisses her gently. His intention is obviously for it to be short, given how he attempts to pull back after a brief second of connection, but Betty fists the collar of his shirt in her hand and returns the kiss with deep intention. She is, as her sister likes to say, going to take the bull by the horns. Betty Cooper is done waiting around demurely.

 

To his credit, he responds eagerly, his tongue begging permission at her lower lip. Betty welcomes it and lets Jughead deepen the kiss. She tugs at his hair a little, and in retaliation one of his hands slides from her waist to the curve of her ass. Betty moans quietly into his mouth, feeling him growing slightly hard against her leg already, and breaks the kiss for the sake of both oxygen and her sanity.

 

“You could stay,” Jughead breathes against her jaw, trying to catch his breath. “You can always stay.”

 

“I have a busy day tomorrow,” Betty says apologetically, running her thumb over his lower lip. “And I think if I stay I won’t be getting much rest.” She gives him another soft kiss, this one shorter and more chaste. His lips are like silk pillows; even if it crashes and burns, she’s _really_ going to enjoy this.

 

“Probably a safe bet,” he murmurs, smiling and brushing a lock of hair off her forehead. “You look so beautiful today.”

 

Betty blushes slightly and looks down briefly before flicking her eyes back up to his. “It’s one of my favourite dresses.”

 

“It’s not the dress,” Jughead says, shaking his head. “It’s just you. Though - yeah, the dress is … nice.” His gaze sweeps blatantly to her chest and then back up, eyes devoid of shame. “Are you sure you haven’t come to your senses?”

 

Betty rolls her eyes. She’s not a fan of his self-deprecation, only because she knows that it stems from feelings of low self-esteem and self-worth instead of a place of honest humour like many people. She’s only known him a few months, and he’s already one of her favourite people ever; there aren’t that many out there with the same sense of justice and loyalty that he has. “I’m sure,” she assures him, shuffling into the jacket he’s holding open for her. She zips it up and pecks his cheek. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

 

“Okay,” he says. He stands at the door and watches her walk to the elevator with a stupid smile on his face, and Betty is overwhelmed by the feeling that _god,_ she has it _bad._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, thanks again for all the feedback! I appreciate each and every comment and hope that you guys enjoyed this chapter. There's a couple more to go, then that's all she (I) wrote!


	9. nine

_“That's how it is when a person develops an attraction toward someone. He's nowhere, then suddenly he's everywhere, whether you want him to be or not.”_

  * Colleen Hoover, _Ugly Love_



 

 

Jughead has always thought that New Year's Eve is highly overrated. You’re supposed to dress up in nice clothes, go out to some crowded bar to interact with a horde of drunken strangers, ingest alcohol until you throw up, and somehow trick some poor girl into kissing you when the clock strikes midnight - all for the sake of celebrating another three hundred and sixty-five days around the sun. It’s never been his thing; for one, he doesn’t really own that many nice clothes, he’s not much of a drinker, and he doesn’t like strangers even in small quantities, let alone in crowds.

 

But here he is, getting ready to go to out to a New Year’s Eve party so he can have a few drinks and kiss a girl at midnight. It’s like he’s entered the Twilight Zone. But it’s _Betty_ he’ll be trying to kiss, and with Betty, Jughead feels like all bets are off. There can be no talk of what he _typically_ does, because nothing about this - her - is normal.

 

Of course, he's stuck between whether to wear a blue shirt and a dark grey one. Both are relatively new; he knows that the blue one looks good on him (he'd gotten a rather strange reaction when he'd worn it dress shopping, which had been a first), but the grey one seems like a better fit for his personality. Jughead sighs and thinks about Betty's flushed cheeks weeks ago in the bridal salon, then tugs the blue shirt on before he changes his mind.

 

He pulls on his best jeans (which are still fairly worn, but it's as good as it's gonna get), grabs his beanie, and heads out of his room to talk to Jellybean.

 

His sister is in the bathroom doing her makeup, but the door is open so Jughead walks up and leans against the door frame. “You almost ready?”

 

Jellybean glances over at him. “Yeah, just give me a second. You know, I can take the train without you. I don't need you to drop me off at the campus party. I'm a big girl.”

 

“It's on the way to Veronica's, like I said,” Jughead shrugs. (It's not.) “I’m not being overprotective.” (He is.) “I trust you and I know you'll make good choices.” (He does; it's everyone _else_ he doesn't trust.)

 

If Jellybean can see through him, she has the decency to humour him and not mention it. She finishes applying her eyeliner (maybe it's mascara; Jughead has never had a good handle on all that stuff) and then wanders into her room briefly. She exits with a purse across her shoulders and pulls a jacket on.

 

“Okay, let's go.”

 

Jughead grabs a coat and then the two of them make their way down to the train station. He takes the subway in the opposite direction of Veronica's expansive apartment, riding with Jellybean three stops. Just before she departs, he pokes her arm. “You can call me _anytime_ , I don't care how early or late it is, if you need an out or anything else.”

 

Jellybean rolls her eyes at him but smiles and pecks his cheek. “I know. Thanks Jug. Say hi to Betty for me.”

 

“Will do,” Jughead agrees. Jellybean departs the train and he waits until she's out of sight, then he slips out of the subway car as well and runs over to the opposite track to head uptown.

 

Because of this he's slightly late to Veronica and Archie’s New Year’s Eve party. It's being held at their apartment on the Upper West Side, so at least there won't be writhing masses of strangers there - just a few writhing strangers, and other people that he's met and tolerated over the course of this engagement. But even though it's at a home, it's no less fancy; when Jughead enters, he feels instantly underdressed in the crowd of people wearing dresses and pressed slacks.

 

“Jug!” Archie greets, pulling the door open for him. “Come on in.”

 

“Hey Arch.” He steps in and hands Smithers, Veronica’s parents’ butler, his coat. Of course Veronica would ‘borrow’ Smithers for the evening; what was a party without hired help? He tries not to think about the fact that Smithers probably makes substantially more than him, focusing instead on locating Betty. “The place looks nice.”

 

Archie glances around, as though noticing the additional mood lighting and decor for the first time. “Oh, yeah. Veronica did it.” He waves his hand toward the hall that leads to the main room. “Come on, everyone’s in the living room.”

 

As far as ‘living rooms’ go, Veronica and Archie’s is more like an apartment into itself - high ceilings, loosely defined dining and living spaces, and a bar, with access to a decent-sized balcony that has a gorgeous view of the city. Jughead makes a beeline for one of the caterers and grabs a salmon roll for comfort while he scans the room for Betty. He spots Midge and Veronica across the room, both dolled up in little dresses. There’s someone else with them, but his view is blocked; Jughead moves to the side a little to see if he can get a better view. There’s a flash of red, and he wrinkles his nose in disappointment. Just Cheryl.

 

He decides to go back for another salmon roll as he waits for Betty. He hasn’t seen her since they’d kissed at his apartment two days prior, as both have been busy with work, Betty especially. The Blueprint is really blowing up; Betty had reported that they’d gotten far more traffic through their article on the smuggling ring than she had on any other article posted since she’d started the site. And not just _more -_ but ten times more, at least. They’d gotten linked and reposted on the sites of more substantial, legitimate news organizations, and monitoring the new influx of visitors to the site was occupying a lot of her time. On the upside, she’d reported that if the new traffic levels remain constant, she’ll be able to bring in enough advertising revenue to up the commission that her freelancers get, and potentially to hire a full-time site manager-slash-junior editor. He’s excited for her; he has a couple of interviews lined up in the new year as well, and is hoping to generate enough interest in his portfolio of articles that he can start freelancing full-time and stop construction work.

 

And _that,_ really, is the dream. Construction work keeps him in shape, but it’s not the life for himself that he wants long-term. Jughead has been trying to work against his expectations for his own life, and with Betty’s encouragement, he thinks for the first time that maybe the dream is really, actually achievable.

 

His phone buzzes. It’s Jellybean, reporting in with a selfie of her and her friend Megan. **_We’re still alive!_ **

 

Jughead responds with **_good, stay that way_ ** and is just sliding his phone back into his pocket when his eyes are covered by two delicate, feminine hands. “Guess who,” the culprit sing-songs into his ear.

 

Even without her voice, the light perfume is a dead giveaway. “Hi Betts.” He reaches up and covering her hands with his own, then removes them from his face so he can see as he turns around to face her.

 

Betty smiles up at him, her lips a matte pink colour. “You look really nice,” she tells him, hooking her fingers over the edge of the front pockets of his jeans. “I love this shirt on you.”

 

Jughead grins. _Success._ “Yeah, I remember from the last time I wore it. You got all red-faced - it was cute.” He slides his arms around her waist and appraises her outfit, a long-sleeved white top tucked into a navy skirt. The shirt is tight and scoops low in the front (highlighting the cleavage that he’s suddenly become very aware of) but the skirt is mercifully loose, although dangerously short. “You look…uh…”

 

“Cat got your tongue?” Betty teases.

 

“Just trying to think of some adjectives that don’t make me sound like a neanderthal,” he says lightly, pressing his fingers into the small of her back to make her tiptoe closer.

 

Betty bites her lip and then smiles at him flirtatiously. “If you need ideas, Reggie told me I look like - and I quote - ‘a four-alarm fire’.”

 

“Reggie is exactly the kind of neanderthal I’m trying to avoid being like,” Jughead informs her. “Though he’s not wrong, just indelicate.”

 

“Yeah, he also told me that if there weren’t enough chairs I should find him, because his lap is always open for me. So yeah, not exactly a smooth talker.” Betty makes a face. “I told him that there was only one guy whose lap I wanted to sit on and it wasn’t his.”

 

Jughead does a quick scan of the room. His gaze lands on Reggie, who’s across at the bar, trying to hit on one of Veronica’s prep school friends. He knows that Reggie is just a mostly harmless flirt - has been his whole life - but still, Jughead narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on Betty. The feminist in him is at war with his baser instinct, which is furious with jealousy. He wants to both let her fight her own battles _and_ hit Reggie across the face; as a compromise, Jughead settles for tugging Betty in and kissing her, quick and hard.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters when he pulls away, shaking his head a little at himself. “That guy drives me crazy sometimes.”

 

Betty has a slightly dazed look in her eye, but snaps out of it. Slowly, she slides a hand up his chest, fingers finally curling around his collar. “Don’t apologize. I know I’m supposed to feel affronted by that blatant caveman move, but …” She bites her lip. “It was kinda hot.” She tugs at his shirt and pulls him back in for another kiss. This one is a bit gentler, and when they break apart she gives him the sweet smile that he’s come to rely on.

 

Jughead returns it, then drops one of his hands from her waist so that he can turn to the side and look across the apartment. “Decent turnout,” he comments.

 

“Yeah.” Betty nods. “Veronica and I decorated everything; how do you think it looks?”

 

“It’s really nice,” he says, and he means it. “Very spirited.”

 

She beams. “Thanks. How’s Jellybean’s wrist?” she asks as they approach the table of food once more.

 

Jughead shrugs and grabs a plate, beginning to load up on appetizers. “It seems to be doing okay. She’s at a party tonight, so if you see me check my phone, I promise I’m not being rude.”

 

“Just overprotective,” Betty says with a teasing smile. “It’s sweet. But you know she’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

 

She’s right, logically, but it’s one thing to know it and another altogether to _feel_ it. Jughead sighs. “Yeah, I know. I’m trying not to think about it.” He pops a pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth, noticing Veronica make her way over to them.

 

“Jughead, Happy New Year,” Veronica greets cordially, a sly smile spreading across her face as she looks between him and Betty. “Did I just see the two of you locking lips?”

 

Jughead looks at Betty, who just smiles at Veronica and grabs onto his arm. “Yes,” she answers simply.

 

Veronica puts one manicured hand on Jughead’s cheek and the other on Betty’s. She sighs in a dramatic fashion. “My little babies. You’ve found each other,” she says. “Your children will have incredible cheekbones.”

 

Betty glances up at Jughead, who sees a brief flash of anxiety in her eyes. He swallows hard, his brain immediately conjuring an image of a little girl with her eyes and his dark hair. He realizes that Betty is nervously waiting for his reaction to Veronica’s words, worrying her lip between her teeth, and he snaps out of his reverie.

 

“I should be so lucky,” Jughead says with full honesty, looking down at Betty. “As long as our hypothetical children inherit her looks and not mine.” In response, he blushes and squeezes his arm. She opens her mouth to speak, but Veronica interrupts.

 

“Oh I don’t know, Juggie, don’t forget what happened last time you wore this blue shirt.”

 

Jughead chuckles and shudders exaggeratedly. “I’m _still_ scared of Cheryl.”

 

Betty looks confused. “Wait, what happened with Cheryl?” she asks.

 

Veronica raises an eyebrow, then clasps her hands together. “Oh right! You were changing. Let me tell you, B, you really missed a show. Basically, Little Red Riding Hood over there came down with a case of the tall-dark-and-hornies, and tried to pick up your man. Suffice it to say that she came on a little stronger than poor Jughead is used to.”

 

“Hmm,” Betty says thoughtfully. She holds onto his arm a little tighter. Jughead can’t be sure, but he thinks that her eyes narrow slightly as she looks over at Cheryl. Jughead fights back a smile and cheerfully pops another pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth.

 

Veronica giggles at her. “Don’t worry B, I think he only has eyes for you. Anyway, I have to go mingle a bit more. You kids have fun.” She winks at Jughead, who feels mildly taken aback by the move, and then flits away toward a group of girls that Jughead doesn’t recognize.

 

Jughead slides his arm around Betty again and kisses her temple. “Want to get a drink and go sit?” he asks. Betty nods, and he leads her over to the bar, where they procure a couple of beers. He spots Moose and Midge sitting on a sectional in the corner and figures that they’re the safest bet, so once he has his drink in hand they head over to sit with them.

 

Time passes mercifully quickly. Jellybean checks in again at nine-thirty and eleven thirty. **_Still alive,_ ** it reads both times, to which Jughead replies, **_glad to hear_ ** and **_don’t forget the countdown at midnight._**  Midge and Betty seem to be bonding a little over some kind of makeup thing that Jughead doesn’t understand, so he alternates texting his sister with talking to Moose and Archie, who has also joined them.

 

Just before midnight, Veronica stands on a table and hollers for everyone to get up and get excited for the countdown. Jughead intends to just sit and watch everyone be crazy, but Betty grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet. With her beside him, it somehow feels less corny to chant numbers into a crowd, and when they reach “one” Betty yells, “Happy New Year!” and kisses him.

 

This time, it’s definitely her that’s in control. Betty threads one of her hands into Jughead’s hair, snatching his beanie off his head, and slips her tongue into his mouth. He keeps his hands steady on her waist and on her back, fighting the urge to drop them to other less appropriate places, and returns her kiss eagerly. He’s trying to balance his fervent hunger for her with his initial instinct against doing anything remotely like this in public; Betty seems to realize this, and she pulls him backward a little until his back hits a wall. Opening his eyes, Jughead realizes that she’s tugged him down a hallway for privacy.

 

They part for air. “Betty,” he says, breathing heavily into her jaw. “That was--”

 

She interrupts him with another kiss, and this time one of her hands finds its way underneath his button-up shirt and onto his abdomen. Her short nails scratch lightly against his skin. The sensation sends him reeling, and Jughead drops any hesitation he was still carrying about the public nature of this particular embrace. She tastes like strawberries and peaches and she sounds like sin when she quietly whines into his mouth.

 

Jughead finally loses control of his left hand, which slips down and grabs her ass. He squeezes and smiles when she gasps against his lips. When he does it again she bites his lip, and he slides his other hand up to palm her breast.

 

“I wanted you to do this,” she breathes, breaking the kiss for air. “All those nights at the docks … I’d go home and I’d think about you kissing me and touching me.”

 

Jughead hears himself growl at her words, and then it’s automatic: he’s ducking in and kissing her again, turning them so she’s the one pressed against the wall, and dragging his lips down her jaw and attaching to her pulse point. He tugs at the scoop of her neckline, kissing down to the swell of her cleavage, and mouths at her collarbone.

 

Betty’s sighing with pleasure, making the most wonderful noises he’s ever heard. Jughead glances up and sees her with her eyes closed and swollen lips slightly parted. A rush of pride flows through him when he realizes that she looks that way because of him. _Him,_ Jughead Jones, the white trash king: he of Sunnyside Trailer Park and Andrews Construction, the kid who had to raise his little sister because his alcoholic father got arrested and his mother didn’t care enough to stick around - _he_ has a girl like Betty Cooper in his arms, he’s kissing her neck, and she wants him.

 

It’s more than he can believe, and Jughead lifts his face from her neck to kiss her on the mouth again.

 

“Do you want to go on a date?” he asks her when the kiss breaks.

 

Betty’s eyes are a dark green, hazy from pleasure, and when they meet his he notices a twinkle in the corner of one. “I’d love to,” she says, extricating her hand from his hair and pulling his beanie back on his head. “You should know that this is the first time anyone’s asked me out with their hand already on my boob.”

 

Jughead looks down, realizes where his hand still is, and immediately pulls it off. He can feel the heat blazing through his cheeks and thinks his head might explode with embarrassment. “Oh my god. Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be sorry,” Betty laughs. “I like it.” She leans in and gives him a short, light kiss. “When were you thinking?”

 

“This weekend?” he asks, reaching for her hand.

 

“We have the sort-of-joint bachelor and bachelorette parties on Friday,” she reminds him, threading their fingers together. “Saturday?”

 

Jughead raises his eyebrows. “You want to go on our first date the day after Archie and Veronica’s bachelor and bachelorette parties?”

 

Betty shrugs and grins up at him teasingly. “I’d rather collect that breakfast you owe me when it’s not a work day.”

 

He begins to lead her out into the main room again, walking intentionally slowly. “You seem pretty confident that I’ll put out on the first date, Cooper.”

 

“Mhm.” Betty leans her head on his shoulder. “I’m counting on it.”

 

\--

 

Jughead is the first to admit that he's probably the last person who should be in charge of planning a bachelor party, even if it _is_ for his lifelong best friend. He's not social enough, not enough of a partier, not enough of a drinker - so to compensate (and against his better judgement), he’d consulted Reggie. It's a decision he's now grown to regret; without Reggie, he'd probably never be standing here in this seedy bar watching Archie drink a full pint of beer out of Moose’s shoe.

 

Not that it's not entertaining - there's a moderately sized part of Jughead that finds the whole thing very amusing. It's just also kind of gross.

 

“Go Arch!” Moose cheers, pumping his fist when Archie finishes drinking.

 

He sets the shoe down, wiping his mouth. “Cross that off the list,” he sputters.

 

Jughead brings up a checklist he's saved in his phone, imported from some ridiculous website that Reggie had sent him. It features a wide variety of things that Archie, as the bachelor, is supposed to do - almost like a scavenger hunt, if each hidden item was actually a task of increasing stupidity. Archie’s had girls buy him drinks, gotten an older woman to spank him, drank a number of potentially dangerous alcoholic combinations, and a number of other amusing-and-idiotic things that he's sure Veronica will never hear about.

 

Jughead has to hand it to Reggie; the upside of the list is that since all the focus is on Archie, it prevents any of them from having to do anything similar. He checks off “drink a beer from a shoe” and takes a swig of his own beer before checking his texts for an update from Betty.

 

True to form, Veronica had had a heavy hand in planning even her own bachelorette party - and Archie's bachelor party. The deal they'd brokered was that each group could do whatever they wanted in the day and earlier evening, but they all had to meet up at a specific bar in the East Village at midnight. The guys had started the day by going to a hockey game (Rangers vs. Oilers, with the Americans losing 2-0), then began a pubcrawl of sorts through a variety of types of establishments (which had included a strip club, despite Jughead’s protests). He's not sure what the girls were doing beyond something to do with a spa, and Betty hadn't been very forthcoming, but Veronica had made him promise that all the guys dress nicely so he imagines they're all dolled up somewhere too.

 

It's half an hour before they're supposed to merge parties and meet the girls; just as he's about to text Betty for her ETA, a message appears in his inbox.

 

 **_Heading over right away,_ ** she reports. **_Where you guys at?_ **

 

Jughead types out a response _(_ **_not even sure what it's called, but we aren't far away from The Factory_** _)_ and sends it. He slides his phone in his pocket and is about to mention the timeline to Archie when Reggie suddenly appears at his side. He slings an arm around Jughead’s shoulders and jostles him a little.

 

“Hey Jugalug,” Reggie says, smelling a little bit like whiskey. “I gotta say, I didn't think planning this with you would go so smoothly, but I think we pulled it off pretty well.”

 

Jughead raises an eyebrow but nods and awkwardly pats his back. “Yeah, Reg. Thanks for helping with this.”

 

“Debauchery is my speciality,” Reggie says cheerfully. “Have you heard from that hot piece of yours? Where are the girls?”

 

Jughead winces at Reggie’s indelicate language. _Never change, Reg,_ he thinks. Aloud, he replies, “Yeah, Betty says they're heading over right away.”

 

Reggie nods. “Cool.” He tilts his head. “I'm still trying to figure out how you got her. No offense, Jug, but she is way too hot for you.”

 

He rolls his eyes. Tell him something he doesn't already know. “What can I say, Reg, I guess she just has a thing for men with full vocabularies,” he shrugs, back to being annoyed. “Let's start heading over.”

 

Reggie stares at him for a moment. Jughead walks away, having no desire to further engage in conversation with him. He goes to inform Archie that they need to start moving to the next bar, and after a few more minutes of frustratingly trying to get everybody going, they start walking.

 

 **_On our way now,_ ** Jughead messages to Betty. He slips his hands in the pockets of his coat and leads the way on the sidewalk, not caring that he’s walking ahead of the group. He loves Archie, and even though the buzz he has going has made this slightly more bearable, Jughead can't wait for this night to be over. Drinking with a bunch of Archie's dude-bro friends is not his favourite thing in the world.

 

When Jughead gets to the bar, the first thing he does is scan the crowd for Betty. He’s suddenly reminded of the way his grandfather used to frantically look for his grandmother whenever they were separated in a crowd, as though he was a helpless child without her instead of a fully grown man. Jughead knows it's far too early in their relationship - if that's what it can be called at this point - to be that embarrassingly dependent on Betty, but he has a surprising lack of anxiety over it. It's logical, he tells himself: Betty excels socially and he does not. She is a spotlight; he is a dark corner.

 

He finally spots her sitting at a large table with Veronica, Nancy, Cheryl and a bunch of other girls. Jughead pushes the sleeves of his shirt up, adjusting the suspenders he’d worn on a whim, and heads over to the table just as the rest of the guys pile in the door behind him.

 

Jughead shuffles up to the table and stands behind Betty's chair. He's about to greet her when Nancy and Midge, who are sitting on the side of the table facing him, notice that he's there and start cheering.

 

“Juggie!” Veronica exclaims, clapping. The rest of the girls join in a chorus of “woo!” noises; all in all, it's a very strange reception. Drunken girls in large groups have always sort of scared him, and this was a prime example of why. What was the socially acceptable reaction to that greeting? Is he supposed to bow?

 

Unable to figure it out, Jughead just raises his eyebrows and shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He clears his throat. “Hey,” he greets, feeling slightly awkward with the table of girls watching him. “We, uh, just got here.” He jabs his thumb in the air in Archie's general direction.

 

“Archiekins!” Veronica shrieks. She hops up and runs over to where Archie is near the coat check, flinging herself into his arms.

 

Jughead watches for a second, amused at her excitement, but on turning back to the table he finds his own arms suddenly full of a giggling, excited Betty. His hands settle automatically on her waist and he has only a second to get out a “hey Betts” before she plants a vodka-flavoured kiss on his mouth.

 

“Hi Juggie,” she says with a slow smile as she pulls back. Her hands are on the back of his neck and her fingers begin playing with the ends of his hair. “I'm glad you're here.”

 

He’s glad to see her too. Actually, he's relieved as fuck that they’re together now, after a night spent with drunk Reggie, drunk Archie, and their comrades. The alcohol he's ingested is probably the only reason he's survived thus far - apart from internalized rage, of course. Judging by the light haze in Betty's eyes, she's also been indulging. She's nowhere near the state she was after Nancy’s promotion - this drunk Betty can still type properly and stand on her own - but she's definitely had enough to lower her inhibitions a bit.

 

Jughead knows this primarily because Betty had eliminated the space between them, her hips pressing into his. She's looking at him like she hasn't eaten in a week and he's a giant steak, which is an odd position for Jughead to be in. It still seems unreal that Betty, who is by far the sexiest girl he's ever laid eyes on, is into him. She's wearing a tight burnt orange skirt and a thin-strapped white top that barely skims the top of her skirt. With her arms around his neck and his at her waist, she’s exposing a few inches of soft, pale skin, and tonight it's for his hands only. A couple of guys a table away are eyeing her ass with interest, and Jughead tightens his grip on her before he briefly mouths at her neck.

 

Betty giggles at the sensation and pushes at his chest. “Come sit,” she says, pulling her chair out.

 

Jughead sinks into it obligingly, slipping his arms around her when she perches on his lap. “How was the bachelorette shindig?” he asks the table of girls, which is quickly also becoming populated with the guys.

 

“Really fun. Betty did a great job,” Midge reports. “How about the bachelor party?”

 

“Archie drank a beer out of your boyfriend’s shoe,” Reggie reports, plopping down beside Cheryl and winking at her. “Hey Red. Lookin’ good tonight.”

 

Cheryl appraises Reggie with bleary eyes and pokes a blood red fingernail at his collarbone as she gives a dramatic sigh. “I suppose you might do,” she says passively, letting her finger fall down his chest. “I'll let you know by last call.”

 

Jughead suppresses a laugh, noting Reggie’s excited expression, and presses his face into the back of Betty's shoulder. He sits quietly as everybody begins to recount the wilder parts of their night. His fingers gently scratch Betty's hip as Archie tells Veronica about the middle-aged women who were buying him shots, then they move to rub her knee when Midge recounts how the girls had forced Veronica to order a drink while wearing a crown made of tiny plastic phalluses.

 

Once the appropriate parts of the evening have been divulged, the music changes and Veronica pulls Archie to the small dance floor. Several other pairs follow, and Jughead takes the opportunity to move to a darker corner booth with Betty.

 

It's similar to the booth where they first met, but this time he’s less of an asshole and far more interested in her friendly smile. Jughead slides in beside Betty on the same side, dropping a hand onto her knee. She kisses him as soon as he stops moving, hands deftly snapping his suspenders on his shoulder and undoing a button on his shirt.

 

Jughead breaks the kiss for oxygen and breathes into her shoulder for a moment. Then he mouths at her neck and mumbles, “If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get into my pants, Cooper.”

 

Betty makes a noncommittal humming noise in his ear, then takes his earlobe between her teeth gently. She releases it slowly, flicks it with her tongue, and replies, “I'm trying to get you _out_ of your pants, actually.”

 

He chuckles. “A tad presumptive, are we?” he teases, his hand gripping her thigh.

 

“I'm not the one with my hand halfway up my skirt,” she retorts, but when he moves to pull it back, she grabs his wrist and stills it. “Don't you dare.”

 

Jughead kisses her again. “Mixed messages here, babe,” he murmurs against her jaw as his free hand slides under the back of her shirt.

 

He’s going back in for another kiss when her hands start unexpectedly pushing at his chest. Jughead sits up automatically, afraid that he’s done something unwelcome. Betty’s raising an unimpressed eyebrow at him and says clearly, “I want you to take me home, Juggie. Is that _un-mixed_ enough?”

 

They’re out of the bar and in an Uber in three minutes - which would have been two if it weren’t for Veronica’s extended drunk hug with Betty (“I-love-you-so-much-Betty-you’re-the-best-friend-in-the-world”) and at his apartment in ten. Jughead tries not to be _that guy_ that makes out with a girl in the back of the car, but Betty’s hand won’t stop running across his leg and her lips are still swollen and her chest is moving rapidly and he _needs_ to touch her.

 

He gives the driver a five-star rating as they tumble out of his car and tips heartily for putting up with their embarrassingly teenage behaviour. Betty practically attacks him in the elevator, rubbing her hand on the front of his slacks. He retaliates by biting her lower lip, then slips his hand into her shirt and gropes one of her breasts until the elevator arrives at his floor.

 

They make out against the locked door for a few seconds, then Jughead pulls away with a cheeky grin and lets her into his apartment. Betty pushes his coat off his shoulders and his beanie off his head, then starts unbuttoning his shirt before the door is even all the way closed. Jughead helps her, tugging the button-up over his head and fisting it in his hand, and is about to remove Betty’s as well when Jellybean comes around the corner.

 

His little sister, dressed in pyjama pants and an oversized sweater, stares at them for a moment. She blinks at their compromising position - him shirtless, the hem of Betty’s skirt riding dangerously high, both with flushed faces and him with messy hair as they’re pressed together against the wall - and then cheerfully says, “I’ll get my headphones,” before shuffling into her bedroom.

 

Jughead closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the wall. The last thing he wants is to be caught doing _this_ by his little sister of all people. His saving grace is that because Betty had been so aggressively attached to him, any sign of his very-present erection was hidden by her body. _Smooth move, Jug,_ he thinks, but when he opens his eyes and looks at Betty he’s surprised to see that she’s trying to suppress laughter.

 

“I suppose you think this is funny,” he states, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

 

Betty breaks into a grin. “Sorry, yes,” she giggles. “Maybe we should’ve gone to my place instead.”

 

“Mine was closer.” Jughead’s eyes fall to her body and his hand moves to touch the zipper of her skirt, fingers trembling for a moment. “My door locks,” he offers after a short silence, meeting her gaze again.

 

Betty’s green eyes search his briefly, as if confirming something in her head; then, with a sultry smile, she nods. Jughead immediately bends down and picks her up, hauling her over his shoulder like so many bags of cement and aggregate that he’s carried over the years. She squeals and swats at his back as he carries her into his bedroom. He pats her ass lovingly and lays her down on the bed, then returns to close and lock the door.

 

When he turns around, she’s naked, and five seconds later he is too.

 

“You still have to take me out tomorrow,” Betty says, sitting on the bed and then crawling backward until she’s leaning against the headboard. “And we’re still gonna have awkward first-date conversations.”

 

Jughead swallows, watching as she tilts her head, spreads her legs slightly, and draws her lower lip into her mouth. “Got it,” he says in a choked tone, his eyes sweeping across her form hungrily. “I’ll come with a list of generic movies and bands to pass off as my favourites.”

 

Betty nods, her own gaze dropping from his face as Jughead approaches the bed. “Better to go with something uncontroversial at first. Wait until date number three to let me know what a weirdo you are.”

 

“How many dates until I tell you about my deadbeat parents and the sister I was legally responsible for?” Jughead asks, kneeling on the mattress.

 

“Probably a second-date thing.”

 

He nods, climbing closer, and settles his shoulders between her bent knees. “Okay,” he says, and then there’s no more talking.

 

\--

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love you guys have given me! One more chapter left to this :) Hope you've all enjoyed it.


	10. ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments.
> 
> Please note that there is a bit of a time jump for this final part.

_ “We come alive in bodies not our own.” _

  * Colum McCann, _Let the Great World Spin_



  
  


 

Betty loves sleeping in.  _ Loves  _ it. It’s one of her top three favourite things in the world, probably. She especially loves it on days like today, when the sun is streaming through the window, the mattress is firm beneath her, and the comforter is soft on her skin. It’s as if the universe is promising her that the day will turn out okay: if it begins this perfectly, how could it be anything but?

 

_ He  _ doesn’t hurt either - even if he drools a little in his sleep and snores lightly when he sleeps on his back. He’s here, spread next to her, with one arm casually around her waist and his face smushed into the pillow so that the skin of his cheek wrinkles strangely against his closed eyelid. His lips are slightly parted, the lower one pouting teasingly at her, and his long eyelashes lay flat against his cheekbones.

 

He’s just  _ pretty,  _ she thinks, and he’s all hers.

 

Betty has woken up to Jughead at least twice a week for the last eight months. Some weeks it’s been nearly every day, but she feels like she should at least spend  _ some  _ time at her own apartment. Jughead spends the night at her place on occasion, especially on days when they’ve been working late on The Blueprint, but his sister has a bit of a habit of sleeping through her alarms so he likes to be around for Jellybean on weekday mornings when she has class. Over the summer break, Jellybean had gotten a job at a local coffee shop with a 7:00 am start time, so Jughead’s anxiety about her sleeping in had only been extended. 

 

As a result, throughout their nine-month relationship  _ (and counting,  _ she thinks), when they’ve spent the night together it’s mostly been at his place. This is fine with Betty - she likes his apartment and it’s pretty close to her work - but she doesn’t actually live here, and she feels weird about bringing too many clothes over before they can have a serious conversation about her moving in. Sometimes she has to wake up really early just to get back to her apartment to change before starting her day, which can get annoying. 

 

Still, the benefits of sharing a bed with him outweigh the disadvantages of having to get up early some days. For one, it provides an interesting opportunity for their pillow talk to include matters related to her website. Since April, Jughead has technically worked for her as the moderator and co-site manager of the Blueprint, in addition to writing both for the site and for other publications. The exposure they'd gotten off of the human trafficking story - and continue to get, thanks to the updates their FBI sources occasionally send them - had propelled her site to a new level, allowing her to hire him as a full-time staff member. It had put an end to the many years he’d spent doing backbreaking construction work, and when Jellybean had found that out she’d given Betty a tight hug and thanked her. Betty still has her job at  _ Bon Appetit  _ for now, but if things keep going the way they have been all summer, not only will she be quitting that but she's probably going to have to hire some more staff and move the headquarters out of her studio apartment in Chinatown. 

 

It's the dream, and she's so grateful to be finally living it.

 

The other advantage to sharing a bed with Jughead is that she gets access to him whenever she wants. And  _ god,  _ she wants. Ever since they'd first slept together the day of Archie and Veronica’s bachelor and bachelorette parties (making for a hilarious first date the next night, when Jughead had taken her for a fancy dinner and they'd ended up laughing through half of it while they used a phone app to generate conversation starters that were entirely inappropriate to their situation), she's been practically addicted to him.

 

(He's extremely good with his hands.) 

 

Betty looks at the clock. 6:30.  _ Shit. _ She needs to be at Veronica’s soon to start getting her hair and makeup done. She’s so excited that the big wedding has finally arrived - she gets to watch her friends get married and start a new life together. It also is bringing a merciful end to the rather time intensive process of being a maid of honour, but since that same process brought her to Jughead, Betty can’t really complain.

 

She should get up, shower, and go. Her extra time is extremely limited. But first … Betty knows how good Jughead is going to look today in his suit, and she thinks it's probably advisable if she fucks him ahead of time so that she isn't unduly distracted during the ceremony.

 

It's logic, really. Plus, his smushed face is  _ so cute.  _

 

He doesn't have to be up for hours - men getting ready for a wedding is always shorter and easier, a fact which Betty resents - but she decides to be selfish and wake him anyway. Betty shifts closer to him in bed and runs a hand up his arm, pushing gently to roll him more on his side than his front, then slips her shoulder underneath so she can kiss his chest. Her fingers scratch across his abdomen, tongue moving to flick at the stubble on the underside of his jaw, and she slips a leg around his hips as she presses at the half-erection that morning usually brings him. 

 

She's making patterns on his neck with her tongue - nothing permanent, since Veronica would probably kill her if the best man had hickeys for the wedding photos - and is just about to nibble at his ear when he lets out a low growl and suddenly she's flipped onto her back. She smiles up at Jughead, who's grinning at her from above with eyes that are half-lidded with both sleep and arousal, and bites her lip. 

 

“Morning,” Betty says, excitement pooling low in her stomach. She'd gone to bed wearing underwear and one of his old t-shirts, but right now she’s wishing she slept naked. 

 

Jughead gets her that way in seconds anyway, tugging her shirt off as she pushes his boxers down. He rolls to the side to take them off completely and grab a condom. Betty rids herself of her panties and slips her fingers between her legs. When he glances back at her and notices, Jughead swears under his breath. 

 

“You're going to be the death of me,” he informs her, crawling back and positioning himself over top of her again. He drops his lips to hers briefly and then trails them down her neck. “Here lies Jughead Jones the third, dead from his girlfriend’s libido.” He grabs her wrist and tugs her hand away from herself. “That's my job,” he informs her, pinning it and her other wrist above her head with one hand.

 

Betty raises an eyebrow. “Then do it,” she challenges, noting a flash of something dark in his eyes.

 

“Don't rush me.” Jughead dips his head to mouth at her breasts, one hand clutching her waist, and Betty thinks,  _ yeah okay,  _ he can do what he wants. 

 

“No hickeys,” she breathes, eyes half-closed. She wriggles around, trying desperately to find friction, but he presses his forearm over her hip and leans on it slightly to still her. 

 

His thumb strokes the skin of her waist slowly. “Okay,” he agrees with her nipple between his teeth, biting down gently. Betty inhales sharply, arching her back into him, and he drops his hand from her wrists. He moves it down, caressing her face and collarbone, until it stops to palm at the breast that isn't in his mouth. 

 

“Juggie,” she whines.  _ “Please.”  _

 

Jughead ignores her and circles his lips on the underside of her breast, where it rejoins her slim torso over her ribcage. “I'm going to leave one here,” he informs her, sucking a mark into her skin.

 

Betty grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs his head up so she can see his face. “Juggie, you know how much I love it when you take your time, but I have to be at Veronica's soon.”

 

“Aye-aye, captain,” he says, amused. She drops his hair, Jughead gives her a mock salute, and then he disappears beneath the comforter. Her head falls back as she feels him push her thighs apart and then lick into her. For a few moments, his thumb rubs slow circles on the small bundle of nerves just above before being replaced by his tongue. 

 

Betty’s eyes flutter closed as she focuses on his touch, letting her body unravel slowly. He stops just as she’s nearly there, eliciting a whine from her. He reappears from below, chuckling, then props her hips up with his hands and pushes into her. They move together for a while, well practiced by now; she sucks her lower lip into her mouth, biting hard to keep from making noise. She loses control of it when her release hits and barely notices when Jughead covers her mouth with his hand as he, too, is pushed over the edge. 

 

He lets go once his body regains the ability to move, sliding out of her and rolling away to discard the condom. Betty sits up on her elbows, the delicious soreness sinking in, and basks in the afterglow for exactly three seconds before she hops out of bed. 

 

She makes a pit stop in the bathroom to pee, brush her teeth, and shower quickly, skipping washing her hair for the sake of her updo holding better. Betty tugs on leggings and a lightweight green sweater, which should be perfect for the early September weather. 

 

When she comes out of the bathroom Jughead is waiting for her, leaning against the wall in his boxers and a t-shirt. His hair is sticking up at odd angles and his eyes are still tired, but he looks happy. He stands up and tugs Betty into his arms for a hug. “You are my favourite way to start the day,” he says sleepily, kissing her ear. 

 

Betty giggles. Sleepy, post-sex Jughead was by far the most adorable version of him that she'd encountered so far. “You're beyond cheesy,” she informs him, loving the contrast between this Jughead and the moody, sarcastic one he typically presents to the world. A year ago, she would have never imagined that he would be so affectionate, or that this would be how Veronica’s wedding day would begin. Which reminds her - “I have to go,” she says apologetically, placing her hands on his shoulders.

 

Jughead groans in exaggerated frustration but lets her go with a brief kiss. “Okay. I love you,” he says. She smiles; hearing that will never get old. They’d first exchanged the sentiment four months prior at two in the morning, when they'd been following an allegedly corrupt City Hall official through Chinatown. She’d thought it oddly fitting, given that she’d fallen for him while hanging out at the docks in the darkness.

 

“I love you too. Oh, don't forget, JB’s hair appointment is at 10 - so she should be at Veronica’s parents’ by 9:45.” Betty pauses. “I still think it's nice that they're paying for her to get her hair done too.”

 

Jughead nods. “Yeah, it's generous of them. But hey, she’s basically Archie's little sister too, in a way. Certainly spent enough time at Fred’s.”

 

“I suppose that's true.” Betty slings her purse over her shoulder. “Plus she wants to impress that Michael guy she's bringing,” she adds, smiling with amusement at the annoyed expression that quickly finds its way onto Jughead’s face.

 

He wrinkles his nose. “God, don't remind me,” he says, opening the apartment door for Betty. 

 

She smiles her thanks and begins to walk out the door. As she passes him he reaches out and squeezes her ass; Betty gasps, but Jughead ducks out of her reach when she tries to swat at him. “Keep your hands to yourself!” she scolds jokingly. 

 

Jughead raises an eyebrow. “Says the girl who woke me up two hours early for sex.”

 

He has a point.  _ Oh well.  _ “What can I say,” Betty says dramatically, leaning in for a final kiss, “you're really hot and I have needs. Besides, I didn't hear you complaining.”

 

He obliges, pressing his lips to hers softly. “You never will,” he promises, then leans against the door frame and watches while she waits for the elevator. When it arrives, he gives her a little wave, then disappears back into the apartment.

 

\--

 

Despite the fact that they’re together from the ceremony onwards, Betty doesn’t actually get much one-on-one time with Jughead until after the reception is well underway and the speeches are over. Veronica and Archie have just completed their first dance and invited other couples to join them. Noting their prominence in the wedding party, and despite Jughead’s obvious distaste for dancing, the public, and dancing  _ in  _ public, Betty drags her boyfriend onto the dance floor. They sway closely, his hands at her waist and hers around his shoulders, and Betty takes the moment to enjoy the feeling.

 

The ceremony was beautiful, held outdoors in a gorgeous section of Central Park just as the leaves are beginning to turn. They’d had a number of what are sure to be incredible photos taken afterward, then driven around in a limo drinking champagne until it was time for the reception to start. Betty hadn’t consumed too much, figuring she was nervous enough for her speech without having an overabundance of alcohol to complicate things. In the end, she thinks it went pretty well: she’d opted for short and sweet over long-winded and boring, and even managed to drop a few jokes in that had conjured a sweep of laughter from the assembled guests.

 

“Veronica likes to create a community around her,” she’d said, catching her friend’s eye and smiling warmly at her. “So since their engagement last year, she’s been making all of us in the wedding party attend monthly gatherings simply for the purpose of getting to know each other better. Coincidentally, this is pretty much how I ended up making most of my good friends from college - and now also how I met somebody who’s now very special to me. So really, I owe her. So many good things have come from my friendship with you, V, and I couldn’t be more overjoyed for you that you’ve found this happiness with Archie. She’s your problem now,” Betty had added to Archie, who had laughed and kissed Veronica’s cheek.

 

As good as she thinks her speech had gone, even she had  _ loved  _ Jughead’s. They hadn’t discussed their speeches with each other beforehand, but Betty had assumed she would be able to anticipate most of what he would say. He’s not an outwardly sentimental person, at least not in an environment like this, so she’d been very surprised when he’d talked about how Archie and Fred had essentially saved him and Jellybean when they had nothing. 

 

“It was the worst time in my life,” he’d said, “but thanks to Arch and his dad, it became the best time.” 

 

He’d glanced at Betty, and she could see the nerves in his eyes. It was clearly not something he was really comfortable discussing, and he had skipped over most of the dirty details, but the moment had been touching and sobering nonetheless. 

 

“Anyone who knows me knows that doing all of this stuff is not on my list of preferred activities,” Jughead had continued. “Hell, most of this is probably stuff that would be on a list of things that I once swore I’d never do - they made me go  _ dress shopping,  _ and Veronica wouldn’t even let me wear my hat today.” That had gotten a lot of laughter from the Andrews side, most of whom were likely familiar with Jughead and his ever-present beanie. “The reality is that those lists have never applied to you, Arch. For all that we’ve been through together, all that you and your dad have done for me … I would do anything for you. You’re my brother in every way that matters. And Veronica, that extends to you too.” Betty remembers glancing at Veronica, who had been clearly touched by that statement, and then looking back at Jughead only to see him staring at her. He’d winked at her and then turned back to Archie, adding, “Besides, it wasn’t all bad.”

 

Betty rests her cheek on Jughead’s shoulder. She feels his nose dip to her hair and hopes he’s being wary of all of the pins keeping the intricate twist in place. She recalls Archie and Veronica’s thank-yous afterward, when Veronica had thanked Betty for all of her help and Archie had thanked her for finally taking Jughead off his hands, and smiles into his suit jacket.

 

“Y’know,” Jughead says quietly, clearing his throat unexpectedly, “I never really understood why people get married.”

 

Betty pulls back slightly to look at him with a raised eyebrow. Now was not really the time for one of his rants on societal expectations and social norms. She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off before she can speak.

 

“I mean,” he adds somewhat hurriedly, “it just seems like such an archaic institution, and with the divorce rate and how most of the people I know - how their parents turned out - I never really got it, why people would bother.” He lifts a hand from her waist and places it on her cheek, gently pulling her toward him for a kiss.

 

She returns the kiss cautiously, slightly confused and unsure of his point. “Okay,” she says slowly.

 

“Fuck, I am really bad at this,” Jughead says, his eyes nervously searching her face. “What I’m  _ trying  _ to say is - I feel like some of that is still valid, but that was before.”

 

“Before?” Betty repeats.

 

Jughead swallows visibly. “Yeah. Before I met you.” He glances away from her anxiously, and Betty turns his face toward her so that he has to meet her eyes again. He gives a small sigh, and says, “I get it now. That’s what I’m trying to say. I didn’t get it before, why someone would want to spend the rest of their life with one person, and give that person so much power to hurt them. But then I met you, and I love you so fucking much, and now I … I understand.”

 

Betty bites her lip, not caring that she’s probably smudging her lipstick. She’s about to lose it anyway. “I love you, Juggie,” she says softly, and kisses him. 

 

He kisses her back, slow and languid. She soaks it in, not caring that they’re on a dance floor in a crowded ballroom. They’re together, and it’s everything she never wanted and probably always needed. She’s always been career driven and focused on achievement, a byproduct of her parents’ influence and her own ambitions. She still is - even moreso, now - but before, Betty didn’t leave herself a lot of time for a personal life. She hadn’t spent a lot of time searching out a boyfriend, even as many of her friends started to pair off. It just wasn’t her main priority. It wasn't even a secondary priority. He’d snuck up on her and gotten under her skin, invading her professional life and unintentionally taking advantage of those ambitions to break down her personal walls. 

 

(As it turns out, Betty loves mixing business with pleasure.)

  
  


-

**fin**

**-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another thank you for all the support you've given this fic! You are all so wonderful. I hope you liked this short wrap-up.
> 
> Please leave me a comment! :)


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